


Turpentine

by dandywarholic



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Art Thief Marston, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Gay John Marston, Gay high class cowboys, High Honor John Marston, M/M, Masturbation, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Oral, Painter Morgan, Takes place in Saint Denis, The gang is split down the middle, everyone...is alive and well, god bless, god im a 21 y/o man and im struggling to tag smut, porn? in my wholesome cowboy fics? god would never, smut in later chapters, the callander brothers are alive and well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandywarholic/pseuds/dandywarholic
Summary: Things went a lot differently in 1886. Dutch and his gang went to a higher life of crime, mingling with the rich and famous instead of stage coaches and banks. Things start to get sticky when heists keep going wrong in California and drove them all the way down to Saint Denis, of all places. Here, John Marston finds a strange painter who can't be all he seems.





	1. Artners In Crime

****

Night fell over Saint Denis. The air filled with rich tobacco, shit, and rain as the city settled down. Shops closed for the night while the saloons thrived. The rich sleeping without worry while the poor slept on empty stomachs.

A detestable city, one that John Marston grimaced at when it was their last option before going further east. Run off from San Francisco, their promised gold mine. 

Promised that this city was going to be different, that they’d play it smarter. John couldn’t help but feel uncertainty and betrayal in every word Dutch spoke. Every inspiring speech felt like a lie. The way the others still looked up to him, alienated in his only family he ever knew. And when he didn't feel betrayed he was stuck in argument over argument with Abigail. It made everything feel bitter, his emotions eating at his patience. 

 

“You’re starin’ off, son.” The words and a hefty hand on his shoulders startled him from his thoughts.

 

“Uh—“ John failed to think, glancing at the binoculars in his hand then at their target: the building ahead of them. “Er,” He started once more and Dutch stayed patient, “Don’t the pieces look a little big to you?"

He looked through the binoculars again, the gallery dimly lit and the paintings hung garish on the walls. Too large to shove out a window, that was for sure. Unless they smashed through the springline arch. It'd be too loud.

 

Dutch shook his head, “They had to get them in there somehow. Just,  _ stick to the plan _ , this time.” 

 

“I don’t know, Dutch, this Angelo Bronte feller—“  
  


“We ain’t  _ speakin’ of him.”  _

John sighed and tried one last time, “These jobs just ain’t feelin’ right.”

“I’ve got it  _ under control _ , John, the last thing I  _ need  _ is for the people I’m dependin’ on to start- Start doubting me. Just do what you know, son. Because last time—If I remember right—It was  _ you  _ who grabbed the wrong damn painting.” Dutch’s tone was stern and unforgiving, made John burn in embarrassment. 

Made John shut up. 

Dutch let go of John’s shoulder finally, “I’m goin to go check on our friend Javier. Remember, do what you know, and stick to the  _ plan.”  _  And with that he made his exit off the roof without letting John have the last word. If he even wanted it anyway. 

Looking through the binoculars again he analyzed the layout from where he could see. Two large doors. 8 paintings of various sizes. Three guards. One of them being their own Bill Williamson, dressed in a classic suit. Just had to wait until Bill gave them the signal then they could break in. Which was conveniently now, actually. Just hoped he didn’t kill the other guards  in the process, but knowing Bill he probably did. Was a real ruthless bastard when the man got impatient.

In any case, the lanterns were lit and the plan was a go. John grabbed the planks next to him and carefully lifted them to bridge the buildings. He could see Dutch doing the same from his position.

Just had to not look down when he rushed across. Windows were pulled open and Bill grabbed him in. 

“How’d you get on?” He heard Dutch say from the other window. John brushed himself off as Bill gleamed. 

“Just fine, boss.” 

“Good _. Good.”  _

And this is where it started to really feel wrong. As wrong as a tip from an obnoxious, Italian mobster could feel, at least. John grabbed his bag and wrapped up the art that was small enough to fit inside while Dutch and Bill fussed with the largest canvas. But it was seriously  _ large _ . 

“ _ Dutch.”  _ John began.

“Do not  _ start with me, boy.  _ Get over here and help.” Dutch didn’t give him much option. 

So he threw his bag over his shoulder and hefted the painting from the middle. It clunked hard against the door frame and Bill cursed out loud. Dutch just barked more orders, all useless. “Turn it, son! To the left.” 

The only thing that did was wedge it. And they had a lot more to get out of the room. 

John let go of the painting and stood back to rub his neck. “God damn it.” 

“ _ Amigos! Dutch,  _ we have trouble— What is going on here?” Javier looked stressed and that was a terrible sign. They weren’t even supposed to see him until they had all the garbage art was cleared out.

“What  _ now?” _ Dutch and Bill stopped their fussing with the canvas to dust themselves off.

“The police!” 

Dutch uprights, bristling. “ _ What.”  _

_ “ _ That Bronte bastard set us up!” Bill pointed out the obvious. 

They had to think quick, they had to act fast. He could hear the police whistles coming from below.

“What do we do, Dutch?” Javier’s expression was scared but trusting in Dutch. The both of them, Javier and Bill, were so damn trusting. 

“Javier, cover us. Kill whoever enters that staircase. Bill, break through that window. We’re taking  _ all of it.” _   He was pissed but he was laughing, his grin broken into a snarl. 

“What are you talking about, Dutch? We have to get out of here!” 

Dutch sighed visibly, his anger redirecting towards John and maybe now wasn’t the best time to test him. “John. My son, just for  _ once _ , trust me.” 

Bill was already throwing lamps and tables at the windows, busting it to pieces in the background. Gunshots ringing out from the stairwell with shouting accompanying it.

“How can I, Dutch? After what happened!” This was really not the time to talk about this.

“This ain’t San Francisco, son. Y-“ Dutch hushed his voice and set his hand on John’s shoulder. Out of guilt maybe, but more likely just to ease him . “You  _ know I would have gone back for you.  _ Just. I need you right now. To listen to  _ me _ .” 

_ Do I know, Dutch? Do I?   _ He so badly wanted to say. 

He didn’t. Instead he just pushed Dutch’s hand off of himself and rubbed at the spot. He was angry, the feeling a dark mixture of fire in his chest. Fighting to come up his throat, made his fingers itch for do something about it. 

“Okay. Okay, let’s do this then.” He hated how bland the words felt on his tongue. His nose scrunched in a snarl, having to direct his attention to the pieces of art instead. Could see Dutch relax somewhat in the corner of his eye. 

Bill was already trying to force paintings out before Dutch barked at him to help Javier instead. John and him managed to shove most of the paintings out the window. Not caring if all of them stayed in tact. It was a matter of principle now, not the worth of the paintings. 

“ _ Boss,  _ we’re starting to get overwhelmed!” Javier called from the hallway, squeezing between the wedged painting. They all looked to Dutch again for guidance and he cursed. 

“Let’s get out of here, boys. Take what you can and go.” Finally voicing some reason. 

John kept any biting comments to himself and grabbed some nice looking decorations to shove in his bag with the paintings. 

“Javier, Bill. You leave right and drop down to the wagon. John, you and I will leave left. They’ll be expecting us to leave from the roof. Be ready, boys.” 

They all nodded and Dutch left first. The plank laid out still sturdy. Immediately he hesitated as a couple shots were thrown his way only to rush across, his full trust in John to take them down. He did too, with a long exhale and his pistol, six bullets took six of them out. He reloaded as he shuffled across the board. His heart thrumming in his chest fueled by adrenaline and anger. 

The police whistles only got more intense as the thieves shot back. That was one thing about cities, their police force were vicious, nasty things. 

The pitch darkness of the night gave them stealth, but the disadvantage of seeing where the hell they were going. The flashing of bullets the only thing at giving John any good perception at where the police were. 

Bill and Javier made it down to the ground safely, and he just had to make sure they made it out okay. 

At some point he lost where Dutch was, in the darkness, the confusion, and most of him really didn’t care. Just had to seek out Javier and Bill. It was risky what they were doing, and stupid. Dutch would get them all killed for his— For his  _ pride alone.  _

Just thinking about that spiked anger again and killing cops didn’t sate it. He knew he had to lead the police away and there was a perfectly good pack of dynamite he had in his bag. It was leftovers from their last heist. Some they didn’t end up using. 

He ran to the lip of the building and ducked down to light it. Gave it a toss over in the opposite direction of Javier and Bill and went it went off he booked it in the same direction. 

Could feel the vibration in his chest, the smell off gunpowder and explosives in the air. The adrenaline powering each and every jump across the building tops. The sound of bullets skidding by and the sharp prodding from the objects in his bag slumping against his back. 

Two more sticks and he was out. He didn’t hear Dutch yelling after him, he wondered if he was concerned. Maybe that feeling was a bit freeing, despite following Dutch for so long. The man that saved him from the noose those years ago, the man that  _ raised him.  _

John killed probably eight more policemen before he knew he needed to find a place to lie low. The night was only so generous, letting him slip from shadow to shadow but lacked any real cover. 

He couldn’t go back to their hideout, not for the night. It’d lead the cops right to them, to Abigail, to Jack. And hell, maybe he wasn’t a great family man but he had a lot to lose.

The whistling was still in his ears when a porch called to him. It seemed run down, vines crawling up the architecture, forgotten potted plants. The French doors open wide with a curtain flowing in the gentle wind. 

No lights were on, could easily be abandoned. Could not be. Or he could hole himself in some bushes, out in the open. Was a risk either way— To be in this  _ city _ was a risk, so John took it. He jumped down to the porch from the building over and took a second to catch his breath. The clouds had cleared some to let the blue light illuminate just enough so he could see where he was going. Just crouched as he was, he took a moment to catch his breath. To calm his shakiness. 

The whistling was more distant now, but close enough to keep him nervous. Nervous enough to enter? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t quite see what was inside, even when the curtain blew open it just welcomed him into darkness. The fear of unknown sitting in his bones, keeping him from proceeding for a moment, but the fear of getting  _ caught _ prioritized quicker with the sound of a closer whistle. 

He rushed in all at once then stopped abruptly. Now without light. Now without anything. Dutch, Javier, Bill, he didn’t even quite know if they made it. 

They did.. bad things, they were thieves. Killers. Dutch pretended they were high class, but they’d be no better robbing stagecoaches. But damn it, no Angelo Bronte was worth dying over. 

John tired of standing in the dark quick. He decided then to light a match to take a peak around.

Didn’t illuminate the space as much as he’d like but enough to see the old, failing walls covered in artwork. None of it hanging, none of it framed, just propped simply against the wall. Couldn’t get too good of a look at any, but with the clear fumes of paint it was easy to assume this was the home of an artist. 

“Fuck-“ John cursed under his breath and flicked out the match as it singed his finger. 

Small scratch and another took its place as he investigated the area some more. 

A single room with minimal furniture. Kitchen in the corner, table next to it. Only a single chair, set slightly askew. And papers— 

John flicked the match out again before it got to burn him this time. Replaced it with a new one and got back to investigating. 

The papers were full of sketches. Different things, all very familiar topics. Nothing he hasn’t really seen before but it wasn’t bad. An artist living in Saint Denis, what a shocker. John’s curiosity got the better of him and he set his bag down gently. Had to light another match to sift through the paper, still lifes, bland women, then .. nature.  


His match went out. He went to light another one before he heard the strike come from behind him. His hands froze on the small box as the room lit up with a sound of a creaking lantern. The crackle of flame eating up the start of a cigarette. The hammer of a pistol getting cocked. 

John’s blood went cold and he stayed put. His hands just slowly raising with the matchbox clutched right in one fist. 

He was damn sure he didn’t hear anyone enter. Whoever this was had been soft on their feet.

“If you’re interested in buyin’, my business hours are on the door.” The voice was cool but thick with a drawl that wasn’t from damn Saint Denis. “But I uh, have a feelin’ you didn’t see no front door, now did you.” 

John didn’t answer yet, trying to find any escape out of this. Could grab for his gun, the weight sitting comfortable on his hip, trusted. Just didn’t know how quick he’d be able to fire and dodge at the same time. He’d be shot either way, and wasn’t feeling risking the aim of this stranger. 

“Nothin’? Turn around, boy.” Could hear the cigarette between the stranger’s teeth. 

Had to obey. 

Couldn’t leave Abigail and Jack alone. 

John shut his eyes for a moment then slowly turned. Felt idiotic, ashamed of being as stupid as to get  _ caught _ , and frustrated that this stranger seemed to be so condescending.

However facing him now let the stranger get a good look at him, let him take a good look at the stranger.

The warm light of the lamp did him well, the flame dancing across his features. Dark blonde or light brown hair he couldn’t tell, but it seemed just gently askew. Fluffy, framed his face well. Few days worth of stubble. A face not befitting a painter, not any he’s known at least, but John realized he didn’t know what a painter was supposed to look like. Not shockingly handsome, that was for sure. Not with his shirt untucked and open to reveal his fit torso. Could see the sweat gleam off it with the light. How his teeth fit over that cigarette. 

Could see the steady hand of that revolver. 

His body language was relaxed but his expression was dangerous. 

This entire man seemed dangerous. For some reason he found it immediately fascinating, as fascinating as the apartment stood to be. A cryptic poem he needed the answers for.

“Got words for yourself or are you dumb?” Smoke exhaled with his words.

 

John remembered where the hell he was, what he had been doing, and what he was. All at once. Was never a great quick thinker neither.

“Uh-“ 

“Uh?” He cut him off. 

“I ain’t here to steal nothin’, feller.” The second he got that out he realized how stupid that sounded, grimaced for himself.

“I bet not. Ain’t nothin’ here worth stealin’. Looks like you got a fine score anyhow.” The man motioned to the bag on the ground with his gun. In such a nonchalant way, charming if it weren’t for the situation. If he didn’t know how quickly the that could change.

“So you’ll go on and put down your gun then?” It was a weak attempt and the stranger laughed. 

“Oh  _ sure.”  _ His drawl was a real thick molasses, a bitter chuckle settled between his words, “If I was out of my  _ goddamn mind to.”  _

John sighed, his thumb rubbing over the striker strip of the box absently. “Then what in the hell are you gonna do with me, mister? I am, truly, at your disposal.” He wanted to bow to give an added effect to his heavy sarcasm, but for some weird reason he found that to be a bad idea.

“Well. Don’t know quite yet. Depends on what you’re runnin’ from. Depends on  _ what’s in the bag.” _ The man took a step forward. 

John could potentially see where this man was going, to go ahead a play along to not risk getting injured. Doubted it’d end well either way. The man seemed not right in ways a normal person would react to a intruder in their home. A sort of familiarity haunted the stranger. Made him unpredictable. And John, well, he never found himself to be a patient man.  _ Doing  _ always got him in better situations than  _ not doing.  _ Or technically just got him into more situations, “better” mostly a side note. 

He rubbed the match strip one more time before giving it a strong toss at the man in front of him, his other hand immediately reaching for his pistol with the ease and practice of years. Heard the man yell out and flinch away and prevented him from shooting for just a second to put them on even ground. Guns aimed steady at one another unflinching.

“Step back or I’ll shoot you, mister!” 

He was damn lucky the man didn’t shoot him first, but he had a feeling he didn’t want to risk getting shot either. The stranger didn’t move, his eyes focused on him. Careful. Made him feel a certain way with the attention on him like that. Made him angry for feeling that way. “I said step back!”

He listened this time. One step. Two step. Slow. Daring. 

“Good. Now there ain’t no reason for neither of us to die tonight. So I do suggest you forget my face, feller.” John took a step to the side, slow with each movement. Focused on the man, couldn’t look away for a second. 

“Ain’t nothin’ to look at anyway.” That sarcastic grin was back but for some reason the comment angered him. Even as much as he’d agree in good nature, he was in no position to make it.

“ _ Shut your damn mouth or I’ll do a good job in shuttin’ it for you.”  _

“Ooh, are you now? Gonna really test whose a faster shot? Cause I’m real interested in seein’ if you can make good on that.” 

“You missin’ some brain up there, mister? I said  _ shut up-“  _

"Oh, I'm gettin' tired of you." 

It was one smooth action, the stranger managed to flick his cigarette away and blow out the lantern in his hand. Shoving them into complete darkness.  John’s stomach sank and he instinctively shot towards the man’s direction twice, but clearly didn’t make a hit. Instead, he found his gun being shoved down and getting clocked in the face.    
  
The smack knocked the thoughts right out of his head that was for sure. Wasn’t done with him, even as John reflectively pulled his hands up to push the man back the stranger had a tight grip on his shirt now. Slammed him right up against the table and made John give out a hoarse grunt. The gun made a loud clunk against the floor.    
  
“Bastard-” John used the wedge of the table to squirm and jab the stranger in the ribs. Even with the growl in pain he got in return he just earned himself another punch. John was getting real tired of it, he used the leverage of the table to try and pry him off. With one last throw of momentum he finally got the man to push backwards and give him an opportunity.

  
John Marston wasn’t good at a lot of things, least of all thinking quick, but he was confident in his fighting skills. A smarter man would have used this time to run, to fuck the paintings, his pride, this beautiful man, and get the hell out of there. He was far too disadvantaged even if this stranger was weaker than him, but that fire in him burned brighter. Frustrated that he kept getting in these damn _situations._ That if this stranger kills him before he kills the stranger that he will never get to see the undoing of his good friend Dutch. That he’d just disappear like he was never there. And Jack Marston will grow up without a father.  
  
The pale moonlight illuminated the figure of the inhabitant of the apartment, his eyes adjusting to the darkness enough now. Gave him confidence.  
“I don’t want to do this, friend.” John said flatly, didn’t exactly sound regretful as he raised his fists.  
.   
The stranger clicked his tongue, “Friend? We friends now?”   
  
It didn’t matter, John stepped forward to go on offense, putting his full weight into throwing a punch. He hit nothing, could see the stranger’s black form move and give his stomach a good punch in return. Made him double over a bit and stagger back, the next punch from the stranger getting blocked by his arms.   
  
John gritted his teeth, taking a quick inhale as he really felt the power of those blows. Too skilled for a painter. Who was this man? John knew he had to take him down before he had the unfortunate chance to find out.  
He stepped to the side and gave a left hook then a right hook. Both blocked, but John was unrelenting and quick, it’s what he depended on. The stranger could hit harder, but John knew he was faster.   
  
It was a strange, complicated dance between two men in the dark, throwing punches and both dodging punches, landing them and grimacing, but still standing. It went on for too long, both of them too preoccupied to make any stupid comments. Just soft panting and growls in the darkness.   
  
John threw another punch, aiming for the side of the stranger’s shadowed head and the man stepped to the side and used it as an opportunity to grab him by the collar. John huffed out a gasp and instinctively pushed back at him. Could see the moon’s light highlighting the contours of his face and it inset a fear in him for a second. A little bit of panic. A quick thought of “Oh, I should have ran. God damn you, John Marston.”   
  
The regret didn’t end there. The stranger dragged him from his footing and slammed him down to the ground and he hit the hardwood like a bag of bricks. Knocked the breath out of him and he couldn’t get another breath in quick enough, next thing he saw was the shadowed form of a winding back fist.   
  
Then a dark blackness, darker than any night.  



	2. Linseed Oil

John awoke to the sound of muffled talking and a pounding headache.    
  


“Are you sure you didn’t kill your new friend there, Arthur? You know, it’s not good if they don’t get back up right away I hear.” 

 

“He’ll be  _ fine. _ I only hit him a little. Did you see what he did to me? He’ll be lucky if he ain’t dead.” 

 

“Well, he better not be. After Sean’s debacle, I’m a bit wary of having the police snoop around here.”

 

“I know you are. We all are.”

 

Without his permission a low groan forced it’s way past his lips, interrupting the men before he could try and process more of their conversation.

 

“Oh, I take it back. Maybe you haven’t killed him yet.” 

 

“ _ Yet.” _

 

When John blinked his eyes open, he saw blurred shapes lit by lantern lights. The shapes clearing up to look like two men hovering over him. He flinched away before one reached out to touch him, gritting his teeth in pain. 

 

“Where.. Where am I?” 

When John tried to shift and sit up, one of the men’s hands pushed him back to lay down. He could feel rope around his wrists that sent a rush of panic down his spine and he struggled. 

 

“Hey, calm down, son. Calm down. Arthur, sit the boy up would you?” The older of the two men said, and as John blinked he could make them out better each time. The new stranger had an equally charming face, aged, but charming. A gentle, welcoming way about it, but he had a deep feeling it was a ruse.

 

“Don’t touch me. Don’t-“ He tried to shy away but the stranger who knocked his lights out, this man named Arthur, grabbed him anyway. Forced him to sit up and he grunted, his teeth ground tight. 

 

He spoke next, way too close for comfort. Trapping John there with rope and himself, leaving him to burn in humiliation. “What’s your name, boy?”

 

“Rip Van Winkle.” He replied quickly. “And I ain’t no boy. Now let me go.” 

 

Arthur just laughed and patted John hard on the shoulder. “Oh, Hosea, my friend. I like him. Can we keep him?” 

 

“Only if you promise to feed him.” And with Hosea’s smile John knew his speculations about him were right.

 

Arthur’s brilliant laugh shook him and he glanced between the two of them. “Oh I’m just messin’ with you, kid. Shoulda seen your face.” 

 

“Quite a sense of humor you got, feller. Excuse me for not laughin’.” John’s nose scrunched and with the way the two were looking at him, made him feel like a kenneled dog. 

 

“Well, Arthur and I— Oh, where are our manners? Arthur, introduce us, please.” 

 

“This dusty old gentleman here is Hosea Matthews. Some fancy art dealer, or so he says.” The Arthur fellow waved over to his friend then to himself, “And me, Arthur Morgan. This is my apartment you have so nicely found yourself in. Nice to meet you, Mister Van Winkle.” Arthur’s hand still stayed on his shoulders. An unshakeable pressure.

 

“Uh,” John looked between them again, maybe a bit taken off guard by them. “Nice to meet you folks. Look, I’m not—“ 

 

“Hey, no, no. No need, we just have a couple questions, right? Then you can be on your way.” 

 

John’s stomach sank a bit. Were these Angelo Bronte’s men? Of course he had to find himself in this situation, he was always so good at finding damn situations to get himself into. 

“What.. What is that you want to know?” 

 

Hosea spoke up, he had a familiar bag in his hands, John’s. Christ. He tried not to give off just how nervous he was, to stay cold faced. The older man pulled out a painting while the fancy clock and candlestick clunked to the ground without care. “Where did you get this, son?” 

 

“Found it.” He said quickly. "Mean somethin' to you, feller?"

 

The two met eye contact, and for a moment John braced for a punch for punishment, but none came. 

“Interesting. So you  _ found  _ this painting.” And Hosea inspected it, it was an Italian looking piece. Or he guessed, he’s never been to Italy but he thinks it’s what it looked like. The architecture ancient and a nice balance of overachieving greenery, painted with thick brushstrokes. It was a prettier painting he’s stolen and he remembers the lowest piece was good for 216 whole American dollars.

“Avido Stronzo, is the painters name, I believe. Wonderful work, yes. The brush strokes especially here. Do you notice? Do you  _ know _ a lot about art, Mister Van Winkle?” 

 

The way Hosea was sounding definitely meant he knew something. They held all the cards, John could only answer. “Er, kinda. A little.” 

 

“I’m surprised you got your hands on such a piece, I heard they had it up in Palais Riche, didn’t they? I’m sure this was the only one you were able to haul out, the rest of that man’s paintings are very big.” 

 

“They were.” John agreed, in bitter memory alone.

 

There was a small lull in conversation. An awkwardness, a pause in their interrogation, like waiting for John to say something. He didn’t know what, nor if he was supposed to. 

“Excuse me, is there a point to all this? Why do you care? Who-.. Who  _ are _ you both?” 

 

They both just laughed, Arthur shrugged. “Ah, just a buncha nobodies. Old fools, I guess.”

 

“Old fools who are just a bit worried you’re getting yourself involved in some, hm, nasty business if you aren’t too careful.” Hosea put elegantly.

 

John scrunched his nose. “Uh, am I wrong to believe I am not yet involved in nasty business? Or is the rope a form a greeting for you folks.” 

 

Hosea thought for a second, then shrugged. “Arthur, maybe we should take the binds off.”

 

“I would very much appreciate that-“ 

 

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t think our friend has earned that privilege yet. All we’ve gotten from him is  _ lies.” _

 

“Ah. You’re right, it would be a pity if we gave him all of our information without somehow gaining any benefit after going through with all of this.” Hosea was very good at talking, making himself seem trustworthy. It was just as dangerous as Arthur’s grin. Maybe even more so. 

And they won’t get anything out of him, John wasn’t no rat. Foolish, doubtful, but never a rat. 

 

“Who are you with, son?”

 

“Nobody.” 

 

Arthur wrinkles his nose. “Oh for some reason that is hard to believe.” 

 

John shrugged, trying to ignore how Arthur’s strong arm around him felt like tightening. “That ain’t really my problem, now is it?”

 

“The painting is a forfeit, kid. I hope you know that, right? Nobody around here’s gonna buy that trash.” Arthur’s tone was  _ harsh _ , and bold enough to stun John stupid.

 

“What?” John narrowed his eyes. “May I ask how you’ve come to that definite conclusion, sir?” Hardly a question, mostly bitter. 

 

“Well you see,” Hosea started.

 

“I painted it.” Arthur finished.

 

“You’re this Stronzo feller?” 

 

They both sighed. 

 

“You can’t sell that to anyone for a good price, listen I’ve tried. 20 bucks maybe, and that’s maybe from a dumb tourist.” 

 

“A pity, truly. I know plenty who are looking for art like this, yet are way too stuck up on these important names. Like an  _ Avido Stronzo.”   _ Hosea shook his head and finally set the painting away. 

 

“I make hell of a lot more money sellin’ it as fakes, that’s for damn sure.” 

 

“ _ Angelo Bronte, that son of a bitch.”   _ John gritted it between his teeth, his hands twisting in his binds. The hand in his shoulder burning against him and he wanted to break the rope and run, take that bastard down himself and whoever stood in his way. 

_ Of course  _ they weren’t worth anything. The fact that Dutch took his word on anything made him feel embarrassed. Frustrated. Dutch a year ago, he wanted to believe he wouldn’t have made this mistake. But then again, they were at the top in Los Angeles. Here they were no one. Just a new cat on the block and this Bronte fellow found them as a threat. And seems of these two dangerous men. 

There were games afoot that were over his head, that he tried to get, but ultimately he felt out of his element. Unless, they could potentially use these two men as a way to further them against Angelo Bronte. That.. definitely was an option. But who was he kidding? He was roped up here like some lowlife villain. His long hair falling in front of his face feeling more feral than anything he’s supposed to be. 

 

“He is a son of a bitch, yeah, I’d say that.” Arthur patted him hard on the back and John grunted.

 

“Y’all work for him then? 

 

“Us? No, no. I’m just some painter, Mister Van Winkle. And this is just an art dealer.”

 

John felt tired of this. “I have a hard time believing that.” 

 

“Well, don’t really care what you believe, boy. Now I doubt you’re gonna tell us any good information, so how about this. We let you go and you return to your big boss man,  _ whoever he is _ .” Arthur’s voice lowered a bit. Suddenly felt too close. The grip he had on him clutches at his shirt to drag him even closer and John’s stomach twisted in all kinds of ways. “You tell  _ him to run _ . Get outta this city. And if he does not, well I’m afraid bad things will happen.  _ Do you understand, Mister Van Winkle.”  _

 

John swallowed thickly, his cheeks burning and his hands tugging so tight at his binds they hurt. Slowly nodded.

Arthur gave him a smirk that practically winded him. Pleased with himself, pleased with John, and it was dangerous as all as could be.

 

“Well, I think he got the message, Arthur. It is very early in the morning for a man as old as me to be up. You go release him and I’m going back downstairs to retire.” Hosea said suddenly and it knocked John back to reality. 

 

Arthur nodded to his friend, no longer forcing such close distance with John thankfully. Letting the man breath. “Alright, catch you ‘round then.” 

 

Hosea was steps away before leaving then turned. John internally wished the man would stay, seemed like he’d be safer if the man was there. From his own thoughts at least. “And Arthur, don’t forget we have to give Miss Tilly those paintings for her home this upcoming week.”

 

“I ain’t no errand boy.” 

 

“No, but you are a gentleman. Do make sure to get them to her.” 

 

Arthur sighed. “I know,  _ I know.”  _

 

Then the door shut and Hosea was gone. 

 

Just the two of them now, alone, with a promise of freedom. Arthur stood up and pulled John up with him and he struggled to get his footing but somehow managed it. 

 

“Now, what am I going to do with you? Don’t exactly want you to know where we live.” John watched him carefully as he figured out a plan. “And I need you alive.” He paused again. John could only manage to stare stupidly at him. “How about I do this.” 

It was a lot clearer this time with the room lit up, Arthur winding for a punch and John braces for it but still ultimately wasn’t prepared for the blackness he was shoved back under.

 

* * *

 

 

 

John woke up on horseback, the light of day just slowly peeking out from the horizon. His vision was blurry, couldn’t quite figure where up was, but he knew that he was in pain. He let out a short groan, the galloping really not helping the ache in his ribs. He remembered Arthur, and Hosea, and what they told him. He also felt his hands still tied up, and his feet now too. He groaned out again.

 

“You alright there?” The familiar voice called in front of him. 

 

“Nngh. Where you takin’ me now.” 

 

“Not to the alligators, so you can thank me on that. We’re just takin’ a short trip, boy. Get you some air.”

 

“Got plenty of air right here.” 

 

“You can thank me on that one too.” And they fell back into silence. 

John looked around lazily, the Saint Denis buildings becoming more and more sparse as they seemed to edge the city. John wasn’t an expert of the layout yet, knew some of it, tried to familiarize himself with it, but it was new. Los Angelos was bigger, and in a way he liked Saint Denis even less because of it.

Could see the swampland coming up and could feel Arthur’s horse slow as they turned into the slums. Cobblestone replaces with thriving grass and run down houses sharing space with unkept weeping willows. Arthur lead his horse to one off the road and got off her. Cooed at the horse afterward with a warmness that he had yet to know. 

Then he turned his attention to John and pulled him off. John only grunted and let out soft groans as he was hefted over the man’s shoulder and walked over to a tree and set him down. 

 

“Sorry I did such a number on that pretty face a yours.” Arthur reached out to touch his face again and John flinched away for Arthur to just take his face in his hands anyway, tilting his jaw to get a look at him.

 

“Pretty?” 

 

“Pretty in a dog kinda way.” Arthur laughed and John scowled. 

 

“Just cut me loose now.” 

 

Arthur sighed and shifted as he kneeled down next to him, letting go of John’s face to favor in rifling through his satchel. John noted the man was a bit more put together, his shirt buttoned up proper and a jacket to pair it. He looked even better in the natural light of the sun, as the light glimmered from the tree into that hair. John shifted uncomfortably.

The man took out a bottle of whiskey and offered it to John and John turned his head to reject it. Arthur shrugged, took a large swig for himself, then set it down next to him. He set down John’s bag too, which was awfully kind of him. 

 

“Alright, Mr. Van Winkle. Nice an easy here.” He pulled out his knife and cut loose John’s feet first. Then he grabbed him close and shoved him up against his chest to reach around and cut his hands. 

 

John pulled his hands free and rubbed at the chaffing of his wrists. “You’re some painter.” 

 

Arthur stood up and tipped his hat. “We all do what we have to to survive.”

 

John didn’t make any movement to get up, or to fight, and even if he wanted to be doubted it’d be a good idea. So he sat there, continuing to rub at his wrists and sit himself comfortable against the tree.

 

“I hope you take my message to heart. It’s a dangerous time to be stirring trouble in Saint Denis. Goodbye now, feller.” Arthur has gotten up on his horse, fixing himself up and didn’t even let John reply before he rushed himself off. 

 

Leaving John here to sit against the tree and watch the mysterious man go. Leaving him to think about what the hell just happened. This painter, Arthur, was giving him whiplash. 

He looked to the bottle he left him and decided it was a greater gift than he really deserved. John uncapped it and took a long swig, the burning forcing itself all the way down to his stomach until he gasped for breath. Then he went ahead and finished the bottle and then tossed it to the grass next to him.

He had to get home. Had to get to Dutch, to explain the situation. 

Wondered if they were worried about him. The memory of Dutch leaving him behind in California was a bitter taste in his mouth, still so fresh. And after everything he’s still been loyal. Things were so tied up with Dutch, can’t even imagine what he’d be doing other than running beside him. Only angered him more that he felt so _trapped_. 

John sighed and stood himself up slowly and stretched. His muscles ached and his knuckles were raw, but he was okay. Mostly. Needed some sleep definitely, head was swimming and now he was just a little tipsy which both solved his problems and worsened them.  The bag Arthur had left him held inside the candlestick, the clock, his hat, his gun, and finally crammed inside was the forfeit painting. Doubted it was out of kindness and more for a cute gag. John rolled his eyes, holstered his gun, then fixed his hat on his head. 

  
He had a long walk home.    
  
Saint Denis was waking up as he walked through the streets. The morning mist was still cool as it clung to his skin. Stage coaches and vagabonds passed him by with hard glances. The beggars cried out to him and every time John had to make small detours to give them a quarter or two. They rewarded him in directions and trinkets or mildly useful items and he thanked them kind.    
The building he was looking for wasn’t where he was promised they’d be, in the fancy rich district. No, it was a building out on the edge of it, nearing the docks. It was no mansion, that was for sure. Was nothing elegant either. Just some building they were somehow able to rent after the trip they made across the frontier. Fit the amount of people they had but not comfortably. 

When crossing the right streets it was easy for him to find it. It’s brightly colored siding met with a black intricate balcony, a full three stories that they shared half of with a hat seller next door. He could see Karen leaning on the siding, smoke in hand. It was early for her, he wondered if she didn’t go to sleep. He didn’t bother to catch her attention, instead walking up to the dark red door. It’s detail on it old and worn and he rapped on the middle of it four times.    
  
“It’s John.” He wanted to sound more enthusiastic, but boy was he tired.    
  
The door opened for him and Davey poked his head out. “Hey! Look who it is! Where’ve you been, John?” 

  
Mac pushed his brother out of the way and laughed brightly. “Oh, you look like shit, Marston.”   
  
“Davey. Mac. I feel like it. Where’s, uh, where’s Dutch?” They welcomed him inside and got him walking down the hallway. The place fairly bare except for two chairs that the brothers were sitting watch, some empty bottles of booze, and playing cards.    
  
“Should be upstairs.” Davey responded and Mac pounded his fist on the wall three times. 

 

“Everyone! John’s back!” 

 

John sighed for the eighth time and started walking up the stairs and various heads, all exhausted and pissed, peeked over the railings. Switched to relief real quick. Ms. Grimshaw especially. 

“You got us all worried, Mister Marston. Head upstairs quickly now.”

 

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

Each step took longer and felt the attention from his associates get longer and louder as they all started to wake up. The painting in his bag prodding at his back, hitting every bruise he had there. He saw Dutch at the top of the steps with his hands on his hips. 

 

_ You tell him to run. Get outta this city. And if he does not, well I’m afraid bad things will happen. Do you understand, Mister Van Winkle.  _

The words said with intense eyes of a color he wasn’t quite sure of. 

 

“Dutch,” John began.

 

“Thought we lost you, son.” Dutch had a crinkle in his smile, relieved. 

 

“I need to talk to you.” He finished. 

 

“Well, hold on, now.” Dutch took John’s arm and pulled him towards his bedroom for some privacy. 

 

“John Marston!” Abigail’s voice rang out and stopped them both in their tracks. Dutch already had a mean smile on his face. “I swear-“ She huffed, her energy anxious and her hands not quite knowing where to go. “Why do you even bother comin’ back.” 

 

“Thought you’d be happy seein’ me.” 

 

”Oh you think you’re cute,  _ Mister Marston _ . Being an absolute idiot and then expecting a warm welcome. I am  _ done  _ with you.” 

 

“I ain’t expectin’ nothin’—“ He stopped himself from arguing more and she was stomping off anyway. Dutch was chuckling next to him. It irritated him, the warmth in his voice, the affection. Like everything was fine and they didn’t just risk their lives last night for nothing. Like things were  _okay_.

John shook his head and looked to Dutch again. The man took his arm again and closed the door behind them. He could see Molly still in a comfortable curl on the shared bed. When John let his bag clunk to the floor she visibly turned in bed. 

 

“Now what has you so worked up, my son?”

 

Now on the spot, John wasn’t quite sure how to word it. “I don’t like this city, Dutch.” Was how he was able to spit it out, not knowing how to open the floodgates the way he wanted. “And this city, well, well it don’t like us.”

 

“No,  _ no, _ this Angelo Bronte feller don’t like us. This city don’t know us yet.” 

 

“It seems like Angelo Bronte is the city, Dutch.” 

 

And Dutch grinned. “Oh he thinks so. And he wants us to believe that.” His voice got a certain level a dark, a confidence deep where John didn’t want it to be. “We are going to show him who were are, and  _ what  _ we are. This city, John, it’s- it’s an egg. We have only reached the shell, and once we  _ crack into  _ that shell, we  _ will _ be rewarded, with- with  _ golden yolk _ we won’t even know what to do with. We were at the top in California, since you oh, so love to remember. We  _ can  _ be that again, no, no we  _ will  _ be that again. And I need you. I need you by my side through this hardship we are going through. Do  _ not  _ ditch us now.” 

 

John slowly nodded. 

 

“Good. Now go get some sleep. Javier and Bill made it back fine if you were curious. That was good thinking on your part, John.” 

 

“Uhuh.” 

  
"Tonight, oh, John. _Tonight_ , my friend. Angelo Bronte will know he has messed with the wrong type of people. And we are here to stay."   
  


John left the bag there with his doubt, his gaze downcast as he walked out. 

John didn’t tell Dutch about the painter and the art dealer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E G G , John, E G G


	3. Mineral Spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> format change because i finally figured out how to make it look good on ao3, where before i just posted from my word doc. if you liked how it was before though just let me know?? idk formatting is hard idk whats easier to read

The night had a stifling humidity that you could choke on. Could feel himself sweating in the suit he was shoved into, pampered up for another plan. Because they apparently had nothing better to do then to poke bears. John tried to shake his worries off his shoulders, his body still aching from the night before. The lights of the mansion gave the atmosphere a warm, orange glow. The trees that swayed over the lawn caught his attention as they wept for them all. Their feathery leaves reminded him about how they looked with the beautiful stranger above him. Dark golden hair in the light of the morning. 

“John! Are you joining us or not?!” 

He was snapped from his thoughts and he mumbled an apology then hurried up after Dutch and the Callander boys to have security search them. Clean, of course. His guns sitting safely under his bed back at home. This was a civil mission, after all. His knife was tucked safely in his boot though, because a man can never be too careful. 

“Right this way, sirs.”    
  
Politicians, art snobs, realtors, and aristocrats galore. When John stepped in he could smell the high perfume in the air, a level of immunity he had not quite mastered here. A fake rose and lilac scent that had a weird linger on someone's tongue. Angelo Bronte  _ will _ be here and Dutch was grinning confidently because of it. Playing another game here that John wasn’t completely confident would work, but was forcing himself to. To  _ believe _ that he knew what he was doing.    
John found himself rubbing anxiously at the wear at his wrists from the rope burns.    
  
“Alright, men.” Dutch turned to the three of them right in the main hallway. “Mac, Davey. I want you to go unearth some things with the politicians. John, go mingle with the fancy names and see what they know. We meet here in an hour to give our _Mister Bronte_ a nice little greeting. Then. We leave.  _ Do  _ you understand me?” 

“Loud and clear, Dutch.” Mac stared firmly. Davey nodded. 

“John?”

“With you, Dutch.” He nodded quickly. 

Dutch squinted, “You seem a bit,  _ out of it _ . Stick with us, son.” 

John nodded again, his eyebrows pulled together. He felt fully “in it”, so he raised his hands as an offering, “I’m good. With you  _ one hundred percent _ .” 

“Good. Just in and out, boys.” And he started to walk away to disappear into the royal chaos.

The gaudy detailing in the ceiling was distracting already. The clocks and artwork intricate yet somehow boring. It was a rather large home, one he had always dreamed of living in some day. Maybe not so posh, but wanted it big and comfortable. A butler to do all the things he didn’t feel like doing. They almost had this in California. They had the large house, the nice furniture. Shared, of course, but they were getting there. They almost up the ladder enough to host their own parties, he’d reckon. With their own crystal chandeliers twinkling above them. John had himself looking everywhere except where he was going, maybe Dutch was right. Maybe he was out of it.

Bumping into someone was inevitable.

 

“—Oh, excuse me!” 

John stepped back a bit and raised a hand in apology, “Ah, I’m sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin’” 

When John got a good look at who he bumped into he found she was a lovely young woman with brown hair that curled. A kind face and bright green eyes. Wore a green and pale pink dress with a man hooked in an arm to complete the look.  A man he recognized, barely. Short dark blond hair swept back and dressed up in a suit that fit him too well, nearly unrecognizable from the messy, paint covered jeans, or the opened shirt. Clean shaven versus the rugged stubble.

“Mister Van Winkle, how nice to see you here.” That thick, honey accent was unmistakably Arthur.. 

John swallowed thickly and dipped his head in a greeting. Cleared his throat. “Mister Morgan.” 

The woman blinked a couple times, her head tilting a bit, “Oh, do you know each other? I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure. Mary-Beth Gaskill.” She gave a small curtsy with a smile.

“Uh, nice to meet you, miss Gaskill. Jo-Er, Rip, uh, Rip Van Winkle.” He saw Arthur grin, and John’s stomach sank a bit. This man was trouble for him. 

Mary-Beth laughed sweetly, he hand coming over her face. “Jo Rip Van Winkle? That is a wonderful name. Where are you from? Not around here I’m guessing.” 

“California, Miss. I’m with a small organization that helps restore art. It’s a very delicate work, but I'd say it's pretty important.” 

“Oh, is that so? No wonder you two know each other. I always find it so amazing what a little bit of paint can do in the right hands.” 

John could feel the sweat drip down his back, his suit felt stuffy. He needed to get out of his conversation, he hated the way Arthur was looking at him. He didn’t like that Arthur had a beautiful woman under his arm. He didn’t like being caught in every lie.

“So, ahem, what, uh. What do you do, Miss? Excuse me if that’s an ignorant question. We have not been in the area long.” 

“Not an ignorant one at all! I’m a writer,” her smile curled and her dress swayed. “I’ve got two books published now. I’m working on my third, and I tell you, this has been my first outing since I started it. Arthur practically had to haul me out of my home!” She looked up at him with a stunning smile and Arthur just lit a cigar. 

“That’s quite amazing, Miss. I’ll be sure to look into your work, but if you don’t mind me, I think I should get goin’.” 

“But you haven’t even asked her about Bronte yet.” The words were gritted between that cigar, his gaze set aside like he had better places to be.

 

John really wished he had better places to be.

 

“Excuse me?” 

Arthur took the cigar from his mouth and exhaled the smoke, “Well, ain’t you gonna ask her about what she knows about Bronte? That is why you’re here, innit?” 

“What’s it to you why I’m here?” John couldn’t keep the agitation from his voice, from it raising a little bit. 

“Oh, nothin’. Just told you somethin’ and am a bit disappointed you were too stupid to listen. Shoulda known not to get my hopes up. So, go ahead and keep nosing about and see where it gets you. Mary-Beth, how ‘bout you tell him what you know about that Bronte feller.” 

“Arthur, you’re being rude.” She nudged him a bit then turned to John with a gentle smile, “I’m sorry, Mister Van Winkle. Did you actually need to know somethin’? Please ignore Arthur, he can be a real downright idiot at times.”

Her kindness put him in a predicament; to be stubborn or be smart. And he really wanted to be stubborn now, of all times. To prove something against the painter, but he didn't know exactly what he had to prove, or why it was important. Dutch would want him to be smart. Dutch would want this information.

“It’s no problem, miss. If you did, indeed, have some information about this. uh, Bronte feller it would be greatly appreciated. He’s made some unfortunate situations for myself and my friends, sadly.” 

“I’m sorry about that. I can give you the little information that I know, but we can’t speak here. Come with me.” She let go of Arthur to instead offer her hand to John, which he took politely. The way she moved from room to room was graceful and fluid. Her other hand pushing back the dark curls that weren’t pinned up. 

Arthur followed behind them as expected, still seeming to be in some type of mood. John assumes he was just like this, which he appreciated made him slightly less appealing. To at least convince himself he shouldn’t be involved with such a personality, despite feeling drawn to him anyway. 

 

Marybeth brought the three of them out to a small alcove outside in the garden. The vines cluttered the space and tangled into the wall. A precise amount of chaos, clearly kept up diligently as the rest of the garden. She let go of John’s hand to sit herself down. John sat down next to her. Arthur did not.

“So, where to begin.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “He owns most of the city. Funds most of the art and productions that happen here. I’ve never spoken to him before, but he’s offered to publish my books when I first started. Got a letter in the mail sayin' so.” 

“And? Did you say yes?”

“Goodness, no! He’s definitely a character I wouldn’t like to be tied to. Plus, it was rewarding to get it done on my own. I didn't need a  _ Bronte _ , nor any  _ Bronte money _ .” 

“Your friend doesn’t seem too adverse to  _ Bronte money.” _ John looked to Arthur who stood a bit away, inspecting the cigar in his hands absently.

Caught his attention at least and he squinted. “Money is  _ money _ .”

“You took the commission!?  _ Arthur.  _ ” 

He seemed to wave her off,  _ “Yeah, I know _ . You can lecture me later. Just keep tellin’ Jo-Rip here about the deep shit he is itchin' to find himself knee deep in.” Arthur tapped the ashes of his cigar into the grass.

“I just need leads, Miss.” John tried despite Arthur’s foulness.

She sighed and collected herself. “Well, I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, but I did hear somethin’.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Uhuh. I heard that Bronte has an underground network that’s smuggling in valuable goods from Europe. Sells them for high prices, or donates them to museums because the politicians will pay a higher price.” 

“ _ Mary-Beth.”  _ Arthur spat on the ground. Real gentleman-like. “You’re gonna make him pay for that information, right?” 

“I’m just being helpful.” 

“That’s the wrong type of helpful, you know he’s going to investigate that now? With his big ol’ posse of new big shots. Daddy’s boys and Californian what-nots startin’ wars they can’t win.”

"Oh, he doesn't look that bad, Arthur. Look at him!."

"I'm lookin' right at him and I don't see much."

John blinked between the two of them and scratched behind his ear, “Uh. Do you know when these shipments come in, Miss?” 

“Last I heard, there's a big one coming up this next Wednesday.” 

“ _ Mary-Beth.” _

“I don’t know what you’re worried about, Arthur. He’s just an  _ art restorer _ .” She smiles like she knew. John, as appreciative as he was of her, felt a chill down his spine. 

“Uhm. Thank you, Miss Gaskill. This information was very valuable, we won’t cause you any trouble none.” 

She nodded. “I’m sure you won’t. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mister Jo-Rip. I’m sure we will meet again with you being a friend of Arthur’s and all.” 

“Friend?” The two of them said at the same time then looked at each other. John’s cheeks burned under that gaze, Arthur’s eyes narrowed at him. 

“ _ Sure _ .” Arthur huffed with a mean smirk on his face. “Not the term I'd use, but _sure._ "

“Y’know—I best be goin’. Thank you again.” He stood up, confidently as he could manage. Trying not to back down against Arthur’s eyes, that color he still was unsure of. “Mister Morgan.” He dipped his head and walked off. Arthur just scoffed in reply. 

As he kept walking he heard Arthur make some comment, unsure of exactly what, but probably snarky. Made his blood boil and he wanted to turn back and question him, to shut that mouth of his. After all his stupid comments and looks throughout the conversation. However, if he started a fight here he doubted Dutch would be happy. Not with the situation being so delicate. John clenched his fists then slowly eased them and kept walking. 

He had valuable information. He didn’t need anything else. Just to return to Dutch, finish up, then get the hell out of here. 

When he got back to the meeting place, greeting folks as he passed, the Callander boys were already there chatting. It couldn’t have been a full hour yet here they were.

“Where’s Dutch?” 

Mac and Davey didn’t seem to concerned, one of them lighting a cigar. “I saw him talking with someone out in the garden. We were able to get invited to a game this upcoming week.” Davey seemed glib.

“But nothin’ on Bronte.” 

“Well, when we brought it up they got all yellow.” 

“Cut us some slack, Marston.” Mac exhaled the smoke and tapped out the ash. 

“I am, just a little curious on how you two is here finished up when there’s plenty a leads.” 

“Like you found a gold mine.” Mac sneered.

None of the men really paid attention when an older man approached them until he was already regarding them, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Gentlemen.” He had a wry smile but kind eyes. Filled with sincerity. Made  John’s pale a bit when he recognized the man, that elderly fellow who was with Arthur. Was a weird name, he remembered, but couldn’t quite pin it. He was an art dealer, so it made sense for him to be here, but did he really need to seek him out? John didn’t trust it.

“Can we help you?” Mac bit out. 

“Was just hoping to say hello.” He looked to John. 

“Uh, hello,  _ Mister..”  _ He put out his hand and the man immediately grabbed his shoulder with one and shook John’s hand with the other.

“Matthews. Hosea Matthews. It’s a wonder seeing you here, small world, huh?” He laughed and John forced himself to laugh with him. 

“Yeah, it uh, it is, ain’t it.” 

Mac and Davey seemed thoroughly confused and Hosea offered his hand to them. “I’m an art dealer, I work with most of the local names around here. Nice to meet you…” The two of them both took turns shaking his hand, but were clearly a bit skeptical. 

“Mac Kilgore.” Mac nodded. 

“Davey Kilgore.” Davey added next. 

“Brothers? I see the resemblance! So what brings you all together here?” Hosea’s interest seemed so genuine it made John envious of how easily he was playing this. He  _ had  _ to be playing this. Just like they were with the other dumb patrons of this gathering. 

“They’re my associates.” John forced out. “And we’re.. Not to be rude, sir, but we’re actually kind of in the middle of something.” 

“Well,  _ how do you know John, Mister Matthews?”  _ Mac’s tone was highly accusatory, and John narrowed his eyes at him. There goes his fake name.

“John?” Hosea played innocently. “Oh, well, you see—“

John piped up again because this was getting out of hand quickly, his irritation deep in his voice. “It’s actually a long story, and our boss is waiting for us, ain’t he, Mac?”

Mac’s eyes narrowed at John, John stared at Mac, Hosea looked to John, and Davey looked between them all. An unspoken tension. It was only three seconds but it felt so much longer. 

“You’re right. I shouldn’t interrupt. Here, take my card. It’s—“ Hosea rustled through his coat pockets for a moment or two searching then pulled out a cream colored card. He held it between his fingers and offered it, “It’s just off broadway. If you ever need to contact me, it has my business hours on there. I’m not sure what you do, but when I tend to run into people it’s usually a sign they’ll need my help.” 

John accepted the card and looked over the fine, gold lettering. “Help? With what?” 

“The world is a difficult place, my boy. But you’re right, I  _ am  _ just an weary, old art dealer. What do I know?” He laughed authentically and patted Mac’s and John’s shoulder. “I won’t keep you any longer, but I was nice seeing you, Mister Van Winkle.” 

“Uhuh.” He waved and watched him step away, his exit taking an entire weight off of his chest. Hosea was a lot more pleasant to deal with than Arthur, yet he held himself in a way that was absolutely terrifying.

One thing bothered him though was just how quickly Mac had blown his cover. No, “Jo-Rip” but an entire tear in his false identity. As if it was fool proof, it just gave this Matthews feller more reason to snoop. John’s irritation gave in after the whole night he's been tested and he rushed Mac and grabbed his finely pressed jacket, “What in the hell are you thinkin’!?” 

Mac immediately pushed back at John, “Get your hands off of me, Marston.” 

“ _ I ain’t Marston here, you fool.”  _ John wanted to punch him and he was close to doing it if Davey wasn’t pulling them apart. "It's  _Rip Van Winkle."_

“Well how was I supposed to know you made friendly with half the townsfolk behind our back? It's a dumb name anyhow.” There it was and John rushed Mac again, thankfully being stopped by Davey before he could wallop him. 

“Oh you’re dumber than Williamson, Mac.”

“You take that back.” And Mac was pushing through Davey to get to John, readying a fist.

 

” _ Boys _ .” The strong voice got them all to freeze.

 

Davey spoke up first, letting go of the two of them and straightened up. “Had nothin’ to do with this, sir.” 

Mac stepped away and dusted himself off, his poor jacket just a bit wrinkled now, looked wrong. John did the same. 

“John,” Dutch said, exasperated, “ Are you  _ trying  _ to sabotage me?” His voice was hushed, the smile on his face filled with anger. 

John quickly realized the room they were in was near silent, guests mumbling gossip and interest in the scuffle. He turned his gaze to the side, “No, never, Dutch. Just that Mac—“

“ _ Enough.  _ I don’t want to hear it, son. We are  _ civilized men _ .” He sighed and looked over the three of them. “Davey, Mac, come with me. John? Go wait outside.” 

“Are you kidding me? Dutch—“ 

“I  _ said, go wait outside.”  _ His teeth were gritted and eyes piercing through John’s bravado. 

“Yes, boss.” John firmly nodded and turned and walked off. Could feel the room’s eyes on him as he made his exit. The walk of shame. 

Outside, he watched the stage coaches and various riders trot past. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cigarette case and lit one to take a nice, long drag. He had pocketed the business card, and now with time to look at it he pulled it out. It was professional looking, nothing too special about it. The font classic with a curly border like he sees in all the ads.   
  
__**Hosea Matthews**  
  
0663 Broadway.  
Monday - Friday 10 AM - 6 PM  
  
Nothing else really written on it, which was odd to him. Normally it would, wouldn't it? To advertise a business rather than a person? He wondered if he should know these things, but for the life of him he couldn't think of any other business cards he's been given as of late. This was as good as any. John also realized he let his cigarette go half to waste and he grunted to finish it off. Flicked the butt to the ground and exhale the last of the smoke. 

With no real options other than waiting, John wondered if Javier was out front yet, and if not, it would be a nice walk to find him.  The trees swayed in the gentle night breeze, yet somehow the air still kept thick with humidity. The staff by the entrance bid him a farewell and he tipped his head in return. Their stagecoach didn't end up being too far off actually and John decided shooting the shit with Javier until they wrapped up inside was fine enough. Javier instantly welcomed the company with a “Hey, amigo! Everything alright?” And John climbed up on the front to catch him up on the situation.   
It wasn't until twenty or so minutes had passed until Dutch and the brothers returned and Javier pulled up front for them to look proper riding off. John put himself in the back for good measure. 

Dutch still seemed angry with him, but in a better mood after his nice chat with Bronte. That man did love a good pissing contest. 

After Dutch got to brag about how Bronte looked all confronted as he was, John was able to describe his findings. How he  _did_ find a gold mine. The shipments were a fantastic lead out of a stupid mission, yet John covered his sources. The painter and the art dealer being kept to himself once again. John figured it out of selfish compulsion, but when he found himself so uncertain all of the time, it felt good to have some insurance.   
An upper hand for once.   
When Dutch gave John his praise for finding a good lead, the man found himself staring off out the stage coach, watching the city pass. It wasn't too late, but enough for the streets to have a certain emptiness to it. The city slowing down for sleep.   
John figured he'd give this Hosea Matthews a visit in the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "👁 👄 👁 🔪oh you want to go?want to rumble? your spurs will jingle jangle all the way to hell my Painting Pardner"


	4. Sansador

Morning came, saw it peeking through the window. He should have gotten up then, but his emotional and physical exhaustion kept him in bed for at least another hour. As he flipped himself onto his back and stared up at the blank ceiling he thought about how nice it’d be if he could just stay here. In the silence. Wondered if he’d ever be able to do that someday. Have nothing to do. 

Guessed that day is when he’d be six feet under. 

When he finally sat up he could hear his bones and muscles crack and pop. “Damn.” He exhaled and scratched absently at his scars. 

At times like these he truly appreciated having his own room. Abigail and Jack slept across the hall. He could just sit in silence, a door separating himself from the chaos of his life.  John fixed his pants over his hips and buttoned his vest up. He didn’t have a lot of furniture in his room, but he had a long mirror. He fixed himself in front of it and brushed his fingers through his long hair. Could probably use a bath. With a final shrug and a press down of his outfit he decided he should get going. Grab something from the kitchen and have his morning coffee. 

His pocket watch read 9:47 and he stuffed it back away and pulled his door open. It was uncharacteristically late for him, he was usually up around 7 or 8, but damn it, it’s been a long week.    
A long month.   
  
Before he made it out of the doorway Abigail walked past with her fist bunched up in her dress. She stopped and looked at him. 

“Mornin’, John.” Her gaze was downcast and her shoulders tight. 

“You’re still mad at me?” 

She pondered that for a second. “I don’t quite know yet. Even if I’m, well, only a bit relieved you made it in one piece. Black and blue an all.” 

John cracked a smile and shook his head. “You.. You are a woman, Abigail.” 

“Uhuh, and you are a stupid,  _ stupid  _ man, John Marston.” She huffed and rolled her eyes to get going again. Calling after Jack and stepping down the stairs. 

He walked after her at a much lazier pace, his thumb hooked over his belt as he made it down. Most of everyone was awake and busting themselves with their day to day tasks. Grimshaw cleaning up after the Callanders, Karen nursing a hangover, Javier and the Callanders shooting the shit at the table. Davey’s hands shuffling through a deck of cards. Bill and Uncle were absent, probably still asleep. John made his way down to the kitchen to get some coffee and a small bite to eat. 

“Mister Marston.” Pearson greeted, “Good morning.” 

John scooted past him and filled his cup with coffee from the stove, grunting a short “Mornin’.” as a reply.

“Just to let you know, John, I’m kind of runnin’ low on supplies.” 

“Okay?” 

“You think you could get somebody on that?” Pearson rubbed the back of his neck looking sweaty and uncomfortable. 

And John wanted to say no, to wave him off and tell him to go get off his ass and get it himself. He  _ was  _ the cook after all, this was his keep. John instead sipped on his coffee, rested his hip against the stove. Shrugged. 

“I’ll uh, I'll see what I can do, Pearson.” Because saying yes was a hell of a lot easier than saying no.

“ _ Thank you,  _ Mister Marston. I hardly have enough for the rest of the week. Dutch hasn’t given me much of an answer when I’ll be getting more funds for it.” 

“Dutch, he uh, yeah.. I’ll figure it out for you, Mister Pearson.” 

“Just don’t think he’s properly taking the kitchen needs seriously enough. You know, when I was in the Navy—“

John cleared his throat and raised his cup of coffee. “You know, I actually think Abigail needs me for somethin’, I shouldn’t hold her up.” 

Pearson seemed to easily buy it, bid him a small farewell, and John finished the rest of his coffee by the large windows in the living room. Watched the city start bustling below, the sound of the trams making their stops and the noise of civilization cluttering the air. John’s hand slipped into his pocket and felt the business card still there, he removed it to give it another once over. 

This Hosea offering to  _ help  _ him, but he wasn’t sure with what. Or why. He made it clear the first night that he was trying to keep him from Bronte. He didn’t know the old man’s game. Normally he would have just given the card to Dutch and consider himself too stupid to figure it out on his own, but that strange painter. This was a direct link to him, and John felt incredibly selfish. 

John dumped any remaining coffee out the open window and left the cup on the sill to leave with no goodbye.

The sound of city was a lot louder with him at ground level and he searched for the street “Broadway.” Took him awhile but John didn’t find himself in a rush, and again the beggars around the streets gave him tips on the area. Even got stuck in conversation with one man who seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

One more street and John searches each building for the correct number. Found it was a green building with a small sign in the window advertising who owned the space. Paintings were up in the window larger than anything else and John examined the pieces before he went for the door. Landscapes;  they were messy and full of movement, more like Edgar Degas feller he heard about but he doubted some art dealer in Saint Denis would get his hands on it. He also didn’t know what an Edgar Degas original looked like anyhow.

John shrugged and pushed the door the small shop open and walked inside. The entire area was rather plain, but the walls were filled with paintings of all different styles. Still lifes, landscapes, women, Greek art, and more. John also noticed the place was void of anyone.

“Uh- Hello?” 

“It’ll just be a moment!” He heard a muffled voice from somewhere in the back. In less than a moment promised he was walking out with some paperwork in his hands. 

He didn’t seem shocked to see him. “Ah, Mister Van Winkle, I’m glad you managed to stop by! I know you must be busy, doing whatever it is you do.” It came off as earnest but it was definitely passive aggressive. 

“Uh. Yeah, well I had a minute to spare.” He chuckled awkwardly and suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or to do with himself.

Hosea sifted through the paperwork in his hands, squinting at it. John was beginning to regret coming here, he didn’t have a plan. He should have had a plan. 

“Er, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He exhaled breath he didn’t know he was holding in, “I uhm, I don’t know why I came if I’m going to be honest with you, Mister Matthews.” 

“People rarely do. I’ve been interested in talking with you, though.” 

John opened his mouth to speak-

“Ah, don’t worry, it’s nothing too intrusive. I just, I worry about new people in this city. You seem like a reasonable young man. I’d hate to see you get swallowed up.” 

“Okay?” 

“Do you have a family?” 

John suddenly got defensive, his eyes narrowing a bit, “Sort of. Yeah. What about it?” 

Hosea didn’t answer right away, instead finding interest in his papers. “And they’re safe?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good, good. Why are you here, Mister Van Winkle?”

“Believe I said I didn’t quite know.”

“In Saint Denis, my dear boy.” 

John laughed softly, shrugging, “Oh, uh, well, don’t have a lot of places to be, now do I?” 

Hosea smiled and nodded, “I understand the feeling. But you have options, you know.” 

He scrunched his nose a bit, “What do you mean?”

“Your life— With your family, you have chances.. to, well. You know.” 

“No, I don’t know.” 

Hosea was about to continue before there was a knock at the door then it opened. The two of them looked over as a taller man pushed himself and a medium sized canvas tucked under his arm into the small studio. 

“Hey, Hos- What is he doing here.” The change in tone was quick and venomous. 

John felt struck seeing the man again. He was well dressed, but rugged. His clothing seeing wear and paint ruined, but a sense of fashion that was unique in comparison to the area. Wasn’t stuffy or uptight. Fit him well and John felt a bit flustered standing there. He was glad Hosea spoke for him. 

“Ah, yes, I saw him at the party last night and offered him my card. We were just having a little chat.” 

“You  _ what.”  _ Arthur looked over to John and narrowed his eyes. “Can’t imagine it being an enlightening conversation.” Arthur set down his canvas with his eyes firmly trained on John. 

“Arthur, how about you and I have a quick chat in the back. If you don’t mind, Mister Van Winkle.” Hosea motioned Arthur over and he begrudgingly followed.

John, he sort of was stuck in the situation. He looked to the door wondering if it was worth it to leave now and cut his losses. But for some reason he was drawn to them. Knew there was something more to them he needed to figure out.

So while he heard the muffled conversation, nothing he could quite make out but Arthur seemed annoyed, he decided to take a look around at each painting. They were gorgeous, but he assumed they were all fakes. If they  _ were Arthur’s.  _ John could hardly paint anything even if he tried, he couldn't imagine being so good that you could mimic famous painters. Other than, you know, being a famous painter themselves.-----

John had his back turned when Arthur and Hosea returned and Arthur cleared his throat to get his attention. 

“So, you in need of some money, boy?” 

John was taken off guard by the question, stuttering a bit as he tried to find his voice, “Er, well, yeah.” 

The man ran his hand through his hair, his shoulders slacked. “Come with me.”

 

Hosea had a full grin on his face. 

 

* * *

 

 

John fidgeted in the seat next to Arthur on the wagon. They sat in silence since they left Saint Denis and canvases and supplies joined them quietly in the back.  From their explanation, he were to assist him set up and he guessed keep him mild company? He wasn’t completely sure. Arthur seemed mighty capable of taking care of himself, but he was going to get paid for this escapade. Even if he didn’t tell anyone at home why he left as long as he came back with money it would make the excuse worth it.

“So..” John scratched the back of his neck, trying to break the thick silence. “Where are we going?” 

Arthur didn’t respond for a second or two, exhaling. “There’s a nice spot next to Emerald Ranch. Shouldn’t take us too long.”

John just nodded, resting his elbows on his knees and let the silence succumb them again. Arthur didn’t seem to be in the best mood, and John wondered if the man ever was in a good one. He seemed to have friends, even perhaps a woman by the looks of that fine lady Mary-Beth. Didn't understand how, unless they were just as questionably drawn to him the same way he was. Bastard. 

The roads were awfully quiet today to add on top of the uncomfortable aura of the wagon. Usually they were polluted with Lemoyne Raiders, the unfortunate, or some other event going on. They did hear gunshots once over in the distance passing Rhodes, something John would have investigated if he were on his own, but Arthur just continued on the path. 

It was sunny and warm when they got to Emerald Ranch. The midday warming their bones yet the passing breeze made it comfortable. Was a hell of a lot better than the stuffy humidity in Lagras. 

Arthur pulled the wagon to the side off of the small commune and hopped down. John did the same and immediately helped the painter get all his supplies off the wagon. A canvas, paints, an easel. General supplies. Thankfully the canvas wasn’t bulky and Arthur directed him to set it down next to his easel that faced the North East. The view was stunning, looking at the mountains that encircled New Hanover. The sky was a clear blue, brilliant and complacent. 

“Need anything else from me, sir- Er boss?” 

Arthur was hunched over his paints, doing something he guessed painters do, then looked back at John. “Just Arthur. I ain’t your boss. Now how about you go settle down. Won’t need you for awhile.” 

“Sure thing.” He tipped his hat and started to walk off. Figure out what ‘settling down’ meant. He went and sat himself on the side of the wagon, watching Arthur paint. He pulled at the grass and noticed how it stained his fingers. He lit a cigarette and took a slow drag before taking it and watching it burn for a little bit. He finished the cigarette and flicked it to the ground.

He quickly realized how absolutely boring this job was going. John stood up and walked over to Arthur to check in on his progress. 

“How long does this usually take.” 

“It takes as long as I need to. Ask again and it’ll take longer.” 

“Think they got a saloon over there?” John motioned over to the ranch lazily.

“No.” 

He sighed and walked around a bit, long enough to annoy Arthur. 

“Jesus, Jo-Rip. Go lay down over there.” He pointed to the grassy plain that was in front of his canvas. John was a bit stunned by the direction.

“Over there?” 

“It’s where I’m pointin’, yeah.” 

John took a step forward, hesitating a little. He’s never been painted before, only on a wanted poster. He didn’t think that counted. 

“Get a move on.” 

“Right.” He awkwardly made his way over to the field and sat himself down. “Here okay?” He shouted to the painter and got a lazy thumbs up in reply. 

He didn’t know what to do with himself, perpetually fidgeting for a little bit. Constantly looking back at the back of the canvas where Arthur stood right behind.  

The longer it took the easier it had been to relax. Finally he settled into the space of grass he occupied, finally he enjoyed the sun over his skin. He took another smoke from his pocket and lit it, lazily taking drags and flicking off ash into the grass next to him. His eyes half shut as he let his mind wander.

He realized here that he hasn’t actually relaxed like this in years, a small vacation from the thoughts and chaos that was his small community. His responsibility, the stress. Abigail, Jack,  _ Dutch _ . The boys at his throat, turning on him because they needed someone to blame. The bitterness he felt towards it all feeling like an afterthought right now. Maybe, just maybe, this job wasn’t too bad. Maybe he felt a sudden urge to just ditch the life he had and accompany some art dealer and painter— Not betray his family of course— Just, take a break. 

_ You have options, you know.  _

John flicked the exhausted cigarette into the grass again. He knew Arthur didn’t like him much, but he wondered if that could change. Wondered if associating with these folks selfishly could benefit the folks at home too, like Mary-Beth’s advice. 

With Dutch how he was right now, John felt it necessary to have a back-up plan. No matter how stupid it could considered to be. 

“Jo-Rip! That’s it for today. Let’s go.” 

His voice startled him out of his thoughts and he sat up a bit. “That ain’t my name, you know.” 

“Oh I know.” 

John hated the way he said that, but the man gratefully didn’t press forward. Tried to take it as a cute joke instead. John stood up and went over and helped Arthur clean up. Took a look at his piece while he was at it.

It captured the landscape near perfectly, even unfinished as it was. The colors soft and full of movement. In the field was a lying figure, dark clothes and a familiar hat. Not particularly detailed, but undeniably him. “S’that me?” 

“Mhm. And the paints wet so be careful with it. Don’t be knockin’ it around like an idiot.” Arthur cleaned up his paints and such and John took the painting carefully off the easel to the wagon. Loading up seemed a lot faster than taking it all out. Then they were off to Saint Denis again. 

On the way there, John felt a little bit more chatty. Arthur did not. Didn’t matter, they made it in one piece. 

John earned 20 dollars for his trouble. 

With Arthur gone he asked Hosea if he could ever do this again and Hosea agreed enthusiastically. 

 

* * *

 

Each time John found himself with Arthur he began to become more and more addicted to it. It was a sort of freedom that contradicted what Dutch told him- Felt like what it used to feel like. When he was a kid. Not pleasant, a little rough, but it bested poker and robbing museums. John loved it. John liked to think he was growing on Arthur too. Probably not, but he hoped so. 

And when he wasn’t escaping his life with Arthur, he was still doing jobs with Dutch. Still trying to keep everyone happy but he knew they could tell. Knew he felt more and more removed from the thievery. How it made him angry when Bill would toss paintings into the wagon carelessly. The familiar buzz after a chase dimmed when he’d think of sitting across a campfire with Arthur up in New Hanover. 

The way Dutch looked at him, with narrowed eyes, careful, John knew he was being too transparent. 

 

“Your boss-man.. He know you’re out here with some stranger?” Arthur startled him a little by the question. 

Was kinda hard to hear him over the sound of the storm smacking against the abandoned house they found themselves in. Wind howling and mean. Even the air felt wet. 

“Huh? Uh. No— Er, not particularly.” John plucked an empty can from the ground and pretended it was interesting. Arthur sat up against the counter across from him with a leg tucked under the other. 

**Shakers' String Beans** , it read. 

“And why’s that?” 

John cleared his throat, shrugging a little bit and tossing the can off. “Think he doesn’t need to know. I’m my own man, Morgan.” 

Arthur chuckled a bit, “Alright, alright. No need to get defensive now. Just curious. Seems like you know an awful lot about me and I don’t know an awful lot about you. Hell, I thought you’d run off the first day I took you out, figured you’d be the type.” 

“The type?”

“You’re all— All strung up. Like a wire. Which is funny since I didn’t really take you as much of a thinker. Could just be misunderstandin’ your thinkin’ for nothin’ but blank space.” 

“I  _ am _ a thinker, Arthur Morgan. Just- Things have been chaotic is all. I got a lot on my mind, and it don’t involve you.” 

“Oh, I beg to differ.” 

John scrunched his nose and narrowed his eyes, “ _ What  _ is your problem with me?” 

There was a perfectly timed flash of lightning followed by a loud crack of thunder. Arthur patiently waited to respond.

“Problems, plural, Jo-Rip. Like your name. You really have doubled down on that poor thing. I ain’t really know where you from, I don’t really know what you do. Your story- It’s a mess. And I don’t trust messes. I may be a damn fool but I ain’t an idiot.”

“My story’s a mess? I don’t truly know what you are other than some gun wielding, smooth talkin’, fight winnin’  _ painter _ . And you are right, I ain’t a very smart man, I’ll admit it, but there is more to you than you are lettin’ me know. So I ain’t tellin’ you just as much.” 

“Seems we’re at an impasse then.” 

“Seems so.” 

They both quieted, looking at each other. It was day but the storm dimmed the abandoned shack. Could still see Arthur fine but most of the room covered by shadows. When lightning would strike it would light up the entire room to leave them in darkness just as quickly. 

 

“What’s your name?” Arthur asked.

John took a second to answer, weighing if he should actually tell him the truth or not. “John. John Marston.” 

Arthur smiled and John immediately knew telling the truth was worth it, “Better name than Jo-Rip Van Winkle, I’d say.”

“It wasn’t Jo-Rip— Nevermind.” They sat in silence again. 

The painter stared up at the ceiling for a little bit. He was damp from the sudden storm just as John was, the rain leaving him in a pleasant sheen. He tried to keep his gaze off him but he couldn’t really avoid watching the man think.

Arthur spoke up again. “I was like you once, maybe not as uppity. That was for damn sure.” 

“I ain’t uppity..” John muttered and it was muffled by the strong winds and rain.

“Was a bad man then, am a bad man now. Lived in the west most of my life before- Well Hosea and I, we decided to try and settle down. ‘ Cept the thing with crime is— Living that life, it ain’t easy to drop. When you can do it well there ain’t much reason to stop, I’m sure you know that. So I started painting, helped with my urges, helped with a lotta things, but it didn’t pay like robbin' did.

When we found ourselves in Saint Denis, that dirt city, we tried to keep clean.. for awhile. But Hosea and I, oh, we make a team. We found if I paint em, he sells them good. They got my name on them? Twenty dollars, they got some fancy rich soundin’ name? Hundred twenty. We get anyone snoopin’ around or callin’ em fakes? I find myself very convincing.”

“Where you used to live in the west? If you don’t mind me askin’.”

Arthur scratches at his stubble. “Farther off in West Elizabeth. Still miss it every day.”

“What made you quit that life?” 

“Dunno, what’s makin’ you want to quit, John?” 

John’s stomach sank a bit, completely caught off guard. How Arthur  _ knew _ . It got him flustered. “I— I ain’t— What makes you think I’m quittin’?” He found himself defensive, maybe a little bit angry. He knew it was just fear.

Arthur shifted where he sat, pulling his leg to his chest and resting his weight on it. “You ain’t as good as a liar as you think you are. Now, tell me what brought you here.”

The question opened up the gates. John, he was a horrible talker. Didn’t really ever enjoy getting in deep conversation, rehashing the things that boiled in his brain. Especially to any living person. He tended to bottle it up and most of the time get vented out in violence and arguments, but here he found himself speaking openly. 

Every word felt like a betrayal to Dutch, to his family, even if he kept any identities out of his monologue. 

“My boss- He uh, he saved me when I was real young. I was on a noose and he took me quick under his wing, he did. I learned to shoot with him and some others- I uh, don’t really remember the others names to be honest with you. Just some fellers, didn’t end up with them for long anyhow. They ranned off after some heist we did and we branded them as traitors.”

“Traitors, huh?” 

John blinked then nodded. “Yeah, I mean, they was. But, that’s not really important. We was promised California and he provided California. We was pretty used to robbin’ stagecoaches but D-Uh-our boss started moving us towards higher crime. We weren’t good at a lot of it, but we picked up a lot of help along the way. Got better. Art- We found out art sold for  _ a lot _ . Right ones? They were hundreds to thousands. We got ourselves a right mansion in California.” 

“A mansion?” The painter seemed actually shocked and John grinned at the memory. Their pride and joy. The fruit of their hard work.

“A whole mansion.” John’s smile quickly faded. “Didn’t last too long. Our boss, he had a plan that didn’t quite work out right. We, we work like somethin' different than any gangs I've seen, you know. Like a family. We always worked together. And it always was that way. Was supposed to be that way.” 

“And somethin’ changed I reckon?” 

“Yeah. It did.” He sighed and shifted where he sat. Ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Somebody must have ratted us out, and it weren’t us. I still don’t quite know what happened. But when we ran we were running, couldn’t even grab much from our home. People knew who we were now. No use in laying low- We had to run. And in runnin’— I, uh.” 

John couldn’t find himself to say it for some reason. Got stuck in his throat. Shame, frustration, betrayal. Memories of the _dogs_  tearing him up.The whistling of the police. The look on Dutch's face as he left him. Things he’s confronted Dutch about, but never talked to any strangers about. It painted his friend in a bad light, and maybe that was why he wanted to talk about it, but it couldn't leave his throat.  _And those bastards would think he'd snitch._

Arthur stayed patient, his eyes focused on him. The rain had calmed down, only a gentle brushing against the wood. The thundering had long stopped. John felt loud. 

“I ain’t forcin’ you to continue.” He said.

With those words John felt an incredible amount of relief, his shoulders slacking and he sighed. “Feel like I need some whiskey actually.” He chuckled and watched as Arthur stood up.

He offered his hand to John and John took it to pull himself up to his feet. After their talk, John only felt closer to Arthur. What he craved since he first met him. Hasn’t trusted a stranger in a long time that Dutch hadn’t pre-approved. This was his own secret and it made his chest tighten. Happened very quickly just after he made a fit about not trusting him. Marston only needed an excuse.

Arthur cleaned up some things he had protected from the rain and John walked over to help him, when Arthur turned he also had a bottle of whiskey he handed to John along with the supplies. Had a smirk on his face and patted John on the shoulder with a small “Get goin’.” 

John nodded, half smiling and nudged the door open for the both of them. It made an awful creek as they exited to the swampy, deserted fishing area. Didn’t know why Arthur had taken them there. It was pretty gnarly and five minutes in it started to pour. As Lagras so often did. 

On their way back to Saint Denis, even if the soft showers still got them wet. John drank most of that whiskey and the silence was more comfortable than it’s ever been. The urge to run away, it deepened into his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for bein patient with me, boys. tips cowboy hat. johns gay tell ur friends


	5. Varnish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lEmOn iN ThIs ChApTeR DoNt LiKe DoNt ReAd

“Where have you been, son?” Dutch’s voice caught him before he could leave upstairs. 

John turned to him and thought slowly about his response. “Wh-Uh, What do you mean?” 

Dutch stepped closer to John and set his hand strong on his shoulder. It was late and most of the others were asleep. He didn’t think he’d be out with Arthur that long, he didn’t think a lot of things though.

“Know somethin’ has been  _ cookin’  _ in that mind a yours. And don’t lie to me, just what has gotten into you?” 

“Dutch, I-“ 

“Now, I  _ know  _ about this, this  _ job  _ you’ve been chasin’ after. Even if it is apparently  _ too complicated _ for me, or  _ us _ , to figure out- Or to be included in. But I told you before, son, we need you  _ here.”  _ He squeezed John’s shoulder and John took a step back.

He rubbed the back of his neck and tried to find the words to save his ass, “I’ve been gettin’ good information, haven’t I?”

“The shipments? It was fantastic! Wonderful. And it was weeks back, John. What have you been doing since? You’ve got a wife- You’ve got a  _boy_ Think it’s in your best interest to listen to me- To  _ trust me _ .” 

“In my best interest?” John bristled.

Dutch ignored it. “We’ve got Bronte on the offense, son. He doesn’t know who we are, only what we can do. If we just make another score- We can-” 

“Thinkin’ you’re speakin’ nonsense, Dutch.” 

He went silent for a second or two then chuckled. “Maybe, son. Maybe.” His grin made him feel uneasy. “Just, right now? Either stick by my  _ side _ this upcoming job, or we will be discussin’ this other  _ work  _ you’ve been makin’ good on. You are either  _ with me  _ or you are  _ against me, John.  _ Prove to me where you really  _ lie.” _

The insinuation got John to look away. “Understood. I’m with you, Dutch. Just, I’ll.. I’ll be best gettin’ to bed.” 

“Of course.” Dutch’s voice was dark and it was chilling having the anger directed at him. “Have a good night, John.” 

Dutch left to the living room in a relaxed stroll to the windows. They were open and the breeze pushed the curtains to sway. John started walking to the staircase before stalling. 

Anger and resentment bubbled in his chest. He felt like he needed a drink, that was for damn sure. As he looked up the staircase he was reminded of all the things he didn’t want to deal with- Where he really did  _ lie.  _ Abigail, as much as he appreciated her, felt like regret in his stomach. Jack too. His friends-people he’d easily die for- seemed like enemies the way they looked at him. He knew he was being stupid- He  _ knew he was wrong.  _ But truly he felt like drowning. 

John turned back and left through the front door without saying a word to Javier who was keeping watch. 

The saloon he found himself at was bustling and filled to the brim with rich snobs. A community he felt entirely comfortable in yet equally disgusted by. He drank as much as the bartender could serve him. Was too much and arguably too little. 

“How much for the bottle, feller?” John called out to him, “Just- Just give me the bottle.” 

“I’m not going to do that, sir.” 

John hunched over the counter a bit and laughed, turning to man next to him and shook his head. “Got better service in, in Tumber-Tumbleweed, you know that?”  The man next to him did his best to ignore him. “Hey! I’m- I’m talkin’ to  _ you,  _ feller. Reckon it'd be in yer-“ 

The man finally turned, he looked rich. Rich and better than him. “Think you’ve had enough, sir?”

John immediately bared his teeth and pushed his empty shot glass away. “Excuse me?”

The man’s eyes flicked away for a second but quickly stood his ground. “Yes. You’re causing quite a ruckus. If you’d please—” 

“A ruckus? Yeah, you might be right about that.” John laughed then grabbed ahold of the man’s fine suit to slam him down on the bar counter. The man yelled out in pain and the bar quieted in the shock of it. They weren't too used to bar fights. It wasn't long before a bystander grabbed John by the shoulder and punched him hard enough to shove John to the counter.  He immediately collected himself and fought back, punching the man in the jaw. The man stumbled back into the crowd and the rich men and women gasped. John didn’t let the man get off easily, immediately rushing him with more violence. He was very drunk, each punch uncalculated and filled with pure rage. Felt great knocking a man’s lights out, even if he took hits in the process. Made him feel powerful and in control. Felt like he could take on the entire bar. Except John was incredibly outmatched.

As he began to win the fight, with his fists unrelentless and bloodied, another bastard grabbed John by the back of his collar and shoved him. 

“Get out of here!” 

“Hey! I- He-“

“I said get! I’ll get the police here, mister!”

John stumbles and knocked into people as he tried leaving the bar. He apologized to the bystanders he disturbed, every “Sorry about that, ma’am” or “‘Scuse me, sir.” was joined with a laugh. The patrons tried avoiding John like he was diseased. Diseased with stupidity, maybe.

He was met with fresh air as he finally left the saloon. As fresh as it could be. Still smelled like perfume and shit as it always did, but beat the stifling humidity of the bar. John stumbled and grabbed onto the nearby post to steady himself. He wiped off the blood from his split lip and chuckled a bit. 

He didn’t really know where to go, he didn’t have a plan other than to get smashed. Could check that off his list. So John just got to walking, each step he had to focus for so he didn’t fall over. The sidewalks weren’t crowded and every person he saw he gave a polite hello. Each one seemed extra polite in return. 

John hummed one of his favorite songs and suddenly stopped. Had to figure out where he was. He recognized the buildings. Doesn't know if it was anywhere near his home though, John found himself lost.

“Marston.” A familiar voice called out to him and John squinted at whoever that could be. The ground really felt like spinning and he could feel his knees start to buckle before he was caught in strong arms. 

“Arthur?” He managed to croak out. 

He didn’t seem exactly pleased to see him, not at all like drunk John was. “What the  _ hell  _ do you think you’re doin’?” 

Marston laughed and shrugged a bit, clinging closer to Arthur. His senses were dulled but he could definitely recognize Arthur smelling exactly how Arthur usually smelled. A bit like wood smoke, paint, and somethin’ else. “D- Dunno, haha. Yer guess is, it’s good as mine, friend.” 

“You get in a fight? The hell happened to your face?” 

“Mm.” John lulled his head a bit.

Arthur looked about, then to the building John found himself at. He recognized it! Hosea’s office. His friend probably had business to do that John was interrupting, but it seemed he had become a priority.

He sighed. “I leave you for a damn second. Come with me.” 

“Arthur Morgan-  _ Hold on, a minute.  _ Just-“ John clutched at his clothes and pushed himself away a bit. 

“ _ What.”  _

“Need’a piss.” 

Arthur grabbed him and pushed him over to the alley to let him do his business over there in peace. Away from the sidewalk and the public eye. Wasn’t busy enough for him to get caught but Arthur clearly didn’t want to take the chance. When John had righted himself and stumbled back over to the man Arthur had a cigarette between his teeth and sighed out smoke. 

“You good?” 

“Uhuh.” 

“C’mon then.” He beckoned him over and kept a firm grip on John’s shoulder to keep him upright. 

“Where are y’takin’ me?” 

John doesn’t remember his reply, nor getting to the destination. Maybe bits and pieces, like struggling up stairs, laughing when he fell on his ass, Arthur making fun of him without understanding what he even said. 

Does remember the apartment he stumbled into, spacious purely for how empty it was. Canvases. A large window with curtains swaying. The chair and table littered with papers— No. The table was empty this time. For some reason John paid attention to that, of all things. 

Arthur pulled him over to the middle of the room and forced him down to the ground, reflecting the moment he met him. The bright moon shining on his features— A lot more dressed for John’s liking. Gorgeous all the same. He had his eyes fixed on him, his cheeks feeling warm and his stomach fuzzy. He didn’t know how much was the drink or how much was his desire, but his hands fixed themselves tight on Arthur’s collar to keep him from leaving. 

“John- Let go a me.” 

“Yer,” John slurred, “Yer pretty.” 

“And you’re pretty drunk.” 

“Hahahaha- I am- I am pretty drunk.” His eyes kept fixated on Arthur’s mouth, not able to concentrate on much else. 

“Can’t reason why, know you’re a man of such  _ few  _ problems. But right now? Get some damn-“ 

As Arthur tried pulling away John did the unbelievable, using the leverage of gravity and his firm grip he pulled Arthur into a kiss. It was sloppy and it only lasted a few seconds. He immediately grabbed ahold of John’s hands and pushed the man fully down on the ground. 

John just laughed as he was pinned, completely accepting the fate. “Hell, Morgan. Am I an idiot?” 

Arthur didn’t look angry, John couldn’t read him at all, actually. Didn’t punch him though and that was a start. 

“You’re an idiot, John.” 

 

John doesn’t remember falling asleep.

  
  


When he woke up he felt immediately awful. The sun was right in his eyes and he groaned, wondering why the hell his curtains were open. The more he blinked, the more he realized he was not in his bed back at the apartment. He was on the floor, an unfamiliar blanket draped over him, a bucket supplied next to his hip. His head felt something fierce and he wondered how long he slept. Or if he was still a little bit drunk, his limbs still feeling heavy and fuzzy. The moment he sat up nausea overcame him and he grabbed that convenient bucket to empty whatever contents his poor stomach had collected. Which wasn’t much. 

John wiped his mouth and pinched the bridge of his nose. The events of last night..they seemed like they happened a month ago. Bits and pieces of a dream he struggled to recollect. 

He did remember something quite clearly however. It made his stomach sink. 

If he didn’t feel like he was drowning, he did now. The anxiety was an overwhelming wave crashing against his stomach. He grabbed for the bucket again. 

John felt himself up and he still had all of his things. In his satchel he quickly searched through it, digging through uselessly for the bottle of cure all. Something to kill his poor headache, his additional aches and pains from the barfight. With it finally found he downed whatever was left of the bottle. 

He was a mess. He was a mess and when he tried to get his bearings he noticed how empty the apartment was. Just as it was void of furniture it was void of Arthur. 

He slowly got to his feet, rubbing at his temple. The room still too bright. John forced himself to walk over to the table. Leaned on it and noticed there were some papers stacked neatly. Doesn’t remember them being there last night- As to say he remembered much. Closer inspection it was some sketches and notes. Clearly business related with different types of handwriting. Math. Boring. 

Underneath was a letter though. He slipped it out of the envelope with care and took a quick peek at the elegant writing. 

It read, 

_ I hope this letter finds you well, _

 

“Makin’ yourself quite at home, huh?” 

Arthur stood in the doorway of the balcony and it scared the everloving shit out of Marston. He slammed the letter on the table and stepped away from it. 

“I- I was- Didn’t know you were home.” His voice was raspier than usual, hardly could push out the words.

Arthur looked fine as ever, had a mug in hand and his shirt was loose and half open. Clearly just had woken up, or at least recently. John has long figured he liked him best like that and he cursed the man. Cursed the man and whatever was in that letter.

“So if I weren’t home you’d be rummaging through my stuff? Ain’t this how I caught you last time? You don’t learn, do you?” He took a sip from his cup, and luckily for John he didn’t actually sound angry. Annoyed at best.

“I ain’t ever been known as a smart man, Morgan.” 

“Don’t I know it.” Arthur walked past him to the small kitchen. Grabbed an extra mug, filled it with coffee, then set it on the table for John. Grabbed the papers and restacked them to the other side of the table. 

John took the cup and gave a meager thanks then took a slow sip. 

“I’ve got things to do today. Suggest you go off, get a bath, n’ figure out everything you’re still runnin’ from.” 

“Think I’ve told you before, I ain’t runnin’.” 

Arthur looked at him and gave a short laugh. “You keep tellin’ yourself that. Maybe one day I’ll believe it.” He stretched a bit and walked past John. “But that day is not today.” 

John just rolled his eyes and took another sip of his coffee. 

“And John?”

“Yeah?”

“You remember anything from last night?”

John’s stomach twisted and he didn’t give himself enough time to weigh his options. He quickly forced out, “Not uh, not really. Why? Did I do somethin’ stupid?” 

The man turned and cracked a small smile, “That was a given. Had to drag you here by the collar practically. Got yourself in a real disaster.” John figured out quickly that Arthur was a godsend. “Just, take it easy today, alright? And keep out of my shit.” 

“Got it.” 

John watched him leave. He pulled the chair out and plopped himself down. Ran his fingers through his hair and hunched over his cup of coffee.  People do crazy things when they are drunk, he bet Arthur was just reasoning it as that. No need to panic. He wasn’t gonna tell anyone. Hopefully. Last night didn’t count. 

John touched his fingers to his lips and exhaled. Definitely not how he imagined it’d ever go.  Wanted a warm campfire, far away from the city, farthest away any onlookers. Wanted it to be natural and from Arthur, from himself.  It was nothing but a dream, it’d never happen that way, but if it did he didn’t want it a drunken kiss in the middle of the night.

There was some shuffling in the room in the hall then he heard the click of locks then a door opening to immediately close. Then silence. He was alone. 

The city was awake, he could hear the singing of trolleys and the shouting of the population. It felt different here in Arthur’s home than it did back at his. He pulled himself from the chair to step out to the balcony. The sun was gentle today, bright yet blanketed in clouds. John rested on the railing to finish the rest of his coffee. 

He took Arthur’s advice, got a bath at the same saloon he got himself kicked out of. Was an opportunity to apologize, pay for his trouble, and retrieve his hat. The bath fixed all his ailments and any that it didn’t was fixed by the fancy meal they sold. 

He was sort of running low on spending money. 

 

When John left he didn’t know where to go. Definitely didn’t want to face his family right now. So he found himself at Arthur’s apartment again. The stairs were twisted and steep but he made up them quick and found the right door. The wallpaper was peeling and an odd color green. If it wasn't peeling there was water damage. The air felt a little dusty, he noticed. There was a window down the hall that let in natural light, yet the hallway still seemed dim. Right as John grabbed the doorknob of apartment 2610 the door next apartment over opened.

He froze.

“S’Arthur home?” The voice scared him out of his wits and he looked over. 

“No.”

Was a young black man, dressed nicely. Had a cautious way about him.

“Who are you then?” 

“J-Ahem, John. I work for Hosea Matthews?” He stepped away from the door a bit as the other man seemed to let down any guard he had before. 

“Ah hell, you must be that man I heard about. The name’s Lenny.” He put out his hand and John shook it. “Hope I didn’t scare you. We get pretty wary ‘round strangers.” 

“You’re fine. Just uh, just grabbin’ some stuff for Arthur.” 

He smiled and nodded, “Wouldn’t want to hold you up. Nice to meet you, John.” 

“Same to you.” He tipped his hat and let himself into Arthur’s apartment and shut the door behind him. He didn’t relax until he heard the door next door click shut. 

While he should be preparing to do a job for Dutch, whatever he had planned, he was here. Waiting for Arthur? He didn’t think so. Hiding. 

The thought of getting on his horse and riding off crossed his mind. He did that once when things got hairy like it was and it felt amazing. But that was a long time ago, and it wasn’t at a tipping point of chaos. If he ran now, he didn't know if he'd be able to run himself back. And John promised Abigail he wouldn’t ever do that again. John promised Abigail a lot of things. 

John shut his eyes and rested against the front door. 

He thought about Arthur instead. How the man looked concentrating on his paintings. The way he moved. The strength in his hands whenever he’d even set his hands on John for any reason. The way he looks under the moonlight. The shadows playing against his features. The intensity of his expression when he first met him to the soft concentration he knew while they were out in the wilderness.

Wanted to see him panting above him, with his eyes focused solely on him. Fingers gripping against his skin, fist full of his hair. His own hands being able to touch his gorgeous sun kissed skin. He wanted Arthur's mouth against his neck. Wanted to know it was like kissing that man, what he tasted like.

John lulled his head a bit as he dumbly palmed the front of his pants from the thoughts of it alone. His legs locked in place and keened from the small amount of attention. 

He didn’t realize just how desperate he was for this stupid man. And indulging himself with his back pressed up against the front was the worse place to do it. Didn't stop him for while, or at least a good minute. It was a little uncomfortable but John couldn't keep his hand still. His thoughts were glued to Arthur, imagining a scene of the painter taking him passionately in the grass. Wild and unhindered.   
  
With a clink of some dishes from the door next door John froze. Realizing how easy it would be to be caught if the neighbor suddenly was in need of some sugar. John stopped himself. Humiliation burned as he sobered a little bit from the lust, by his thoughts, by his actions.

He uncomfortably walked over to the small kitchen and sat in the chair there... 

_ Then  _ he let himself continue. John considered it a great improvement than before, would buy him at least five seconds if anyone came in.

He prayed God wasn’t watching when he unbuckled his belt and let it slack. His layers were annoying to fuss over but in the end he figured how to grip himself and the sensation alone got him to shudder. He shut his eyes tight and thought about Arthur again. Thought about what he could do with him. He prayed again to God to forgive him as he stroked himself faster. 

He kept any noises to a minimum, only sound being the friction of skin and his soft panting. Wished it was Arthur’s hand instead and the tighter he shut his eyes the easier he could pretend. Wanted him so bad the moment he saw him, that night with his shirt open and angry, and if God didn’t make mistakes then why the hell couldn't he? 

He was so close. He couldn’t tell what was anxiety, what was pleasure, or what was humiliation. All a mix as he pumped his cock fast enough to ache certain muscles in his arms he wasn’t used to using. 

The moment was cut short when he heard the door unlock. He was completely snapped out of his little dream, dragged right into reality like dunking his head into a bucket of ice water. He doesn’t think he’s ever stood up faster, knocking the chair over and tucking his dick back into his pants. Buckled it in. It _pinched_ and he had to quickly adjust it. Only made it worse. He rushed to calm his breathing, but he was shaking. His cheeks flushed and balance unsteady.

Arthur didn’t even have to step far into the living room to catch on. He had some paperwork and a couple empty frames tucked underneath an arm. 

“I read the letter.” John blurted out, fastest liar in the west. 

Arthur was absolutely dumbfounded, confused, then angry. 

“ _ What?”  _

“I read it. I’m- Im sorry.” 

He walked over and set down his frames. Calm. Quiet. John was still trying to keep his breathing to a minimum, even holding his breath at times to try and regulate it. The adrenaline and heat of the moment throwing him completely off. And Arthur was the complete opposite. 

Arthur hooked a thumb over his belt and walked over to the table and set down the new papers. The other ones were still neatly stacked where they were that morning.

“What’d it say, Marston?” 

He was calling his bluff, oh god. “What did it say? You’re read ain’t you?” 

“Maybe haven’t gotten around to readin’ that one yet.” John knew it was a lie. He watched as Arthur leaned over and grabbed the stack of papers and more importantly the letter. 

“You know, I… I’ll leave.” John offered, already stepping back carefully. Every step was more and more uncomfortable, still hard in his pants and restricted to all hell. His plan of getting Arthur angry enough to kick him out was backfiring. 

“Is a letter from a woman I was fixin’ on marryin’. Helped her brother ‘bout a year back. This was her sayin’ thank you. She married to some rich sonova bitch, then that rich sonova bitch died. I hear from her a lot often than I used to.” He answered his own question for John.

John was a bit stunned, a man who rarely spoke of his past suddenly opening up to him while he had his cock pinned up against his hip between pants and belt buckle. 

“Okay?” He tried. 

“That was years ago, she broke my heart real good. Daddy didn’t like me, even after me tryin’ settle down. Reason after reason it was, and things- They didn’t work out then. They didn’t work out now. I ain’t been with a person since, and definitely not with anyone with a image to uphold. It's... It ain't right.”

He was being… turned down, he thinks? Turned down when he hasn’t evenly properly asked, being turned down because he was an idiot enough to fantasize and commit sin. He wondered if this was God telling him he screwed up. Shame hit him. 

Women- Women were easier, women he could just outright talk to. Persuade or charm. Even if he wasn’t interested, when he had to pretend, it was so much easier. Men, there was always a silent game. 

He was being turned down because he failed colossally at pretending. 

“I.. I don’t get what you mean.” He said when he understood completely. 

Arthur sighed and turned to him. “How many times I gotta tell you, you’re a worse liar than you think.” 

“I ain’t lyin’, Morgan! Jesus-” Anger bubbled up, like a cornered dog. “Your, your woman turned you down- Acceptin’ yourself as some, sad bastard ‘cause of it? If you ain’t interested, I apologize.” He put up his hands in submission. “But I ain’t followin’ whatever _this_ is. As if I said so many things to you that I have  _ not _ .” Even if Arthur was probably pretty accurate in his deduction. “So I guess I’m, what I’m tryin’ to say is. I’ll leave you be, I’ll leave this all be.” 

“John, now hold on a minute.” Arthur said. 

John already turned to leave, ignoring his discomfort to storm off. No longer hard, sure, but that belt buckle was  _ way too tight.  _

“Marston.” Arthur called after him again and John didn’t have the patience. 

He felt like he had been swept to sea, pulled into the riptide. Lost once again because of his  _ idiocy _ . His only place of solace destroyed by his lust. Something Abigail was supposed to be there to prevent him from, but John was a selfish, selfish man. 

Arthur grabbed John’s shoulder to force him to turn around. He didn’t want to, trying to shrug him off, but Arthur pulled hard enough to spin the man on his heel. Got him stumbling to easily shove him up against the door. The painter suddenly close, his hands pinning John on each shoulder. 

Arthur didn’t give him a lot of time to process the situation before he tilted his head and caught John’s lips into a deep kiss. Even surprised as he was, he immediately sunk into it, his hands gripping at Arthur's waist.

He was drowning but he suddenly felt the security of something  _ right _ . A hand pulling him up through through the water and he could  _ breathe again. _

John didn’t let the kiss die, tilting his head with him. Each kiss replaced with another and more welcomed. Open mouthed and passionate. Arthur’s tongue licking into John’s mouth and he slid his against Arthur’s in a messy dance that had a rhythm only the two of them knew. 

John’s hands made their way up and hooked his arms around Arthur’s neck. Arthur did the opposite, his moving down to hold his waist. 

It was Arthur who finally broke it, leaving the two of them softly panting. John didn’t let go, Arthur didn’t either. 

“I..” The painter cleared his throat, his eyes averted. John’s were affixed on him. “I keep makin’ an idiot of myself. No matter what I do.” 

“You didn’t say that well back there.” 

“I know I didn’t.”

John felt a sudden giddiness, kissing at the corner of Arthur’s mouth. Didn’t take much persuasion to have the man fully kissing him again. This time a lot slower, Arthur taking his time sliding his tongue into John’s mouth, making him hum in both delight and frustration. Arthur broke the kiss to start kissing at John’s jaw making his way down to his neck. His body pushed him up against the door. John hissed in discomfort and quickly pushed Arthur back a bit.

“I-“ Arthur was about to apologize.

John shook his head and quickly unbuckled his belt and felt immediate relief after a couple adjustments. 

Arthur blinked. 

“When I came in were you really..” jacking off? 

“Uhuh.” 

“Were you..” thinking of me? 

“Yeah.” 

" _Jesus, John._ "

Felt great to admit that, his heart thrumming his chest as Arthur responded in the best way he wanted to. Roughly shoving his body up against the door again with his leg between John’s, forcing friction up against him. Couldn’t let him gasp, kissing him as he slowly ground up against him. His left hand hooked on his belt loop to force more attention. Only broke the kiss to mouth at John’s neck, his teeth grazing in places that got John to shudder and keen. 

John peeked his eyes open as Arthur shifted, seeing him reach over and grab the main lock on the door and forced it locked. John’s stomach did a flip for so many reasons, but mostly excitement. Disbelief too. 

He felt so eager, maybe stupidly so. His hands almost working on their own as they tugged at buttons and clothing, undoing whatever he could in his cage of security and lust. 

His last lover was a rich diplomat, he remembered him vividly. It was bad sex as it usually was with rich, boring men. Their excitement was the wrongness of partaking it with a man- Always treated him as a woman- And did he truly pity the wives they had. 

Arthur reflected everything he craved so desperately.

Could feel him hard against thigh and John pushed his hands low to grab Arthur’s belt and undo it. It dropped to the ground with a loud think which got them both to freeze for a moment. They listened for anything living that wasn’t the general ambiance of city to then continue their mischief. 

Most of their clothes had been undone or made a mess of by the time Arthur reasoned to pull John from the door and to the bedroom. John had never stepped foot in there, and he couldn’t really get a good look being shoved onto the bed and practically devoured by Arthur’s mouth and hands. Arthur’s shirt undone and John did what he wanted since he met him. Press his hands up against his chest and feel him up. Arthur hummed and John made a pleased noise in response. 

Arthur broke the kiss. 

“Are we going too fast?” His voice low and gravely. 

John immediately shook his head. “No. Stop and I’ll shoot you dead, Morgan. A promise I _will_ uphold.” That got a laugh from him and they smiled into the next kiss. 

“I wouldn’t want to piss off dear John Marston, you are right.” He kissed him again.

“I  _ ain’t  _ one to be reckoned with.” John kissed Arthur this time.

Arthur reached down and slid his hand into John’s slacks to gently jerk him off. John shifted a little bit as he let him. After a bit he wanted more, his hand went to Arthur’s collar bone and pressed his palm to get him to stop and sit up. Arthur listened as John sat up more. 

“Get off your damn pants, Arthur Morgan.” 

“As you please.” He sat up and undid more of his pants or any other layers, boots, etcetera. Did it slowly. Even a little bit bashfully. A bit clumsy. Like a man who hasn’t had sex in a long time. 

John sat up on his knees and kissed at Arthur’s neck. Slow and careful, hand at his neck while the other slid down Arthur’s chest and to his cock. Grasped it gently and could feel Arthur’s body tense with just his touch. Wondered how long it’s been since he has let somebody touch him like this. John worked him at a slow pace, Arthur’s precum allowing John’s hand to move easily. 

John kissed at Arthur’s throat, at his collar bone, at his chest, his abdomen, his naval. Sinking down and sinking down until he got to his cock and parted his lips to take it into his mouth. John’s long hair fell in front of his face and he didn’t mind, concentrating fully on how he could take Arthur more. Relaxing his jaw, wary of his teeth, and generous with his tongue. Bobbing slowly yet consistently. Arthur sighed pleasantly above him, his hand coming down to push John’s hair back for him, to watch him as he sucked and bobbed down on him. 

John hummed and worked faster. His hand stroking what he couldn’t fit into his mouth. Arthur gripped tighter at John’s hair, huffing above him. Made his cock ache and he shifted where he sat, needing more of him. Wanting to give more to him. 

Arthur nudged John up and with a last lick he listened. Wiped off any excess saliva that collected with the back of his hand. 

“Arthur..” He breathed out, his voice low and guttural. He didn’t need to ask, the painter already helping him with his pants, with layers, the boots. Everything. He laid naked and felt a bit scrawny in comparison to Arthur. Felt vulnerable. Arthur kissed him for a little bit. His strong hand pressed on John’s chest to still him as he hung over him and slowly lick into his mouth. John was greedy, tugging and fidgeting to get him going but ultimately lost in the small war. Let the minutes draw out of just kissing him and aching under him. He craved the attention and couldn’t believe Arthur patience. 

He has gone years without this... and if Arthur truly said he had gone longer. Unbelievable. 

Arthur finally broke the kiss and pet through John’s hair. Forced his head to the side a little bit in the process. 

His voice held a certain rawness in it, laced with lust. Deeper. Didn’t ask the question he thought he would. “How’d that happen?” 

“Nn, barfight last night I think.” He assumes he was talking about the bruise.

“The scars, idiot.” Arthur thumbed over them gently. Still were a bit tender and John grimaced. 

“Damn dogs.” He sighed. “Was leavin’ San Francisco when I got jumped by a couple hounds. Friend a mine.. Friend of mine left me there. ‘Nother friend went back for me.” 

The man didn’t say anything except grunt in approval, like that was an acceptable answer for him. The shift in subject wasn’t exactly sexy and Arthur knew that. Kissed him a couple times in apology and just below his ear. Got John to sigh pleasantly. 

“Let me grab somethin’” 

“Okay.” 

John shut his eyes as he felt Arthur leave him and the bed rocked as weight abandoned it. Heard shuffling, didn’t watch. Drawers opening then closing. Some grumbling then finally a satisfied grunt with a “There’s the bastard.” 

The bed squeaked as it was forced with new weight returned and John opened his eyes again. Arthur had a tin that held promises he ached for. He was about to shift over but Arthur grabbed his thighs and dragged him closer. John chuckled softly as Arthur met him with a small kiss. 

The tin opened, a cold substance pressed up against his entrance that made him tense. 

“Ah. Hell.” 

Arthur kissed his neck in an apology but didn’t stop, John wouldn’t want him to stop. He massaged the area for a moment or two before prodding inside him with a digit, and immediately John tensed up again with a gasp.

“Hey, easy. Easy now.” 

With a short exhale he obeyed, relaxing slowly. Arthur pressed his finger deeper into him, crooking it inside and massaging into him. Second one pushed into him next and John panted as he got used to it. Ached. Didn’t feel completely comfortable but it wasn’t entirely foreign. It didn’t take long for his body to stop resisting and instead rocking against his fingers, pushing further and further yet not quite there. 

“Arthur Morgan.” He rasped out. “Would you just do it?” 

“ _ Easy.”  _ His voice stern. 

“Talkin’ to me like cattle.” 

“You ain’t nothin’ but.” 

Arthur pulled his fingers out of him and John grunted. Grabbed that tin again and he got to watch him slather the substance onto his cock. Watched him pull his hips closer and push up against him. John immediately winced— Found himself an idiot- That was  _ not  _ enough prep for how tight he was. They both quickly figured that out as low growls were pulled from John without his permission. Too late to back out now, John focused on relaxing. His eyes shut tight as he took Arthur in as much as he could. He knew the man was going easy on him. 

He didn’t think any of the other men he’s slept with have ever been this considerate. In hindsight it sort of pissed him off. 

“I’m okay. Keep… keep goin’, Morgan.” 

Arthur listened, pulling John tight and rocking slowly into him. Each time John would give a soft gasp, a low grunt. The slow pace didn’t last long, the lubrication doing wonders for fitting him in him, felt better every time. Still hurt, still didn’t feel natural, but when it felt good it felt addicting. His gasps turned to heavy panting, huffs of breath every time Arthur fucked into him. 

The bed was angry at the two of them, creaking under the stress and fell into a rhythm as Arthur did. John gritted his teeth as he could feel himself take more of Arthur, knew the man was being incredibly tender with him. Careful, gentle. Something he wasn’t used to. In retaliation John rutted down against him to force him to hilt into him, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body. They both groaned, John gripped onto Arthur’s shoulder as the man started another rhythm that included all of him. Slower, yet deeper. 

His panting felt heavier, hotter, yet he felt so breathless all the while. 

Arthur crouched over him a little more and readjusted some. Shifted John’s legs over his hips and John immediately clung to him, and Arthur fucked him harder. Fucked him faster. The poor bed squeaking with their passion, forcing low noises from John every now and then when it felt absolutely perfect. His cock ached to come, he felt so incredibly close and his body quaked with pleasure as Arthur repeatedly stuffed him where he needed it most. Couldn’t hold himself back, shoving a hand down and touching himself. He bit his lip and arched a bit. He knew Arthur couldn’t have possibly been fucking deeper but it damn felt like it. His eyes shut tight as he let it overwhelm him. Let Arthur fucked him right into the mattress and the headboard announcing their sin despite how quiet the two of them tried to be. John couldn’t find himself to care, only thrilled at how hard Arthur was giving it to him. 

And all at once he gasped, his body tensing and squeezing around Arthur as he came hard over both of them. His hand stopping its movement but Arthur  _ didn’t.  _ Felt immediately overwhelmed with stimulation. Dragged short moans out of John every time Arthur continued to fuck into him. Near begs as he kept going for a couple more thrusts. With a sudden halt Arthur shoved deep inside him and John felt him cum, felt hot and messy. Perfect, arguably. John couldn't keep a low moan back, his body shaking from it all. Arthur immediately pulled out and left John an absolute disaster. Disgusting. Sinful. 

They both panted hard, desperately trying to catch their breath. Stayed close for a little bit, recovering from it as if it was an entire workout. Kissing every moment they could able themselves to.

Arthur was the first to move, shoving John’s legs out of the way easily. Used his shirt to clean them both up of the mess they made and climbed over John to scoot to the reasonable side of the bed. John was still sort of recovering, feeling useless. Arthur dragged him over. 

To be clear, John wasn’t an affectionate man. He’d cuddle if Abigail needed him to or if someone particularly required it of him. Today though, right now, he voluntarily scooted up close to Arthur. Leaned on him a little. An unspoken affection that got Arthur to rest an arm around him. 

Arthur swiped a smoke from the side table on his side and offered one to John. Offered him a light too. They didn’t speak, just smoked their cigarettes, put them out, then slept. 

It was the most relaxed John had been in years. Decades maybe. Perhaps ever. He had no thoughts, no anxiety. Just exhaustion. Like the wire he was strung up like finally snapped. He didn’t have any dreams. He didn’t have any nightmares. 

 

He felt content for the first time in this city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot? sorry-- what did you say? what? plot? i cant, i cant hear you over the banging im sorry.


	6. Acrylic

Morning came quicker than he wanted it to. No natural light allowed itself in the room except from the open door. John rubbed at his eyes, scratched at his scar a little. Let the new day prod at his consciousness. Arthur laid next to him, seemingly still out cold. Their closeness from the night before was disrupted in their sleep, the man turned away from him as naked as he was born. John grabbed the thin blanket to cover them both. Arthur didn’t budge an inch. 

John Marston was free to look around the room, it was very… Arthur. Like a peek into that man’s mind. The furniture all looked second hand and worn, and there wasn't a lot of it. A wardrobe, a chest, side table that held various items he couldn’t quite make out from where he sat. Photos pinned against the wall in no particular pattern. John regretted not snooping around when he had the place to himself. It seemed like a treasure trove of information of the man that he couldn't seem to crack.

Various animal pelts coated the walls, antlers too. John hardly knew a thing about hunting but they looked like high quality kills. Arthur Morgan really was an interesting man. 

Another small side table next to him sat a lamp, a revolver, and a journal. The same one that John saw Arthur writing in constantly. John looked to Arthur who was still sleeping. He looked to the journal.

It couldn’t hurt to just  _ peek _ .

John shifted carefully, acting like he was just getting comfortable, getting just close enough to the table to reach over. His thumb passed over the pages to flip it open just barely. He was sure he saw some recognizable figures before the bed creaked as weight shifted, Arthur’s hand coming down and slammed the book shut. John froze.

“Mm, you really hate privacy, don’t you.” His body pressed up against John’s, his voice thick with sleep, his face up against the crook of John’s neck. Caging him in with everything that was Arthur, and as much of that should’ve been a blessing, it was gently horrifying.

“Hey, hey.” John swallowed and grabbed Arthur’s hand to hold it close to himself, to turn the situation in his favor. “Didn’t see nothin’...” 

“S’at so?” Arthur’s weight shifted again as he got comfortable, felt the man push his long hair out of the way to rest undisturbed at his neck. Could feel his hot breath and the affection was intimate in a way he wasn’t used to. 

“Sure is.”

“Next time you’re gonna lose a hand. Understand that.” He kissed at John’s neck, right under his ear. John found it unfair that Arthur was able to sound so threatening yet so attractive at the same time. 

“Understood.” John managed to croak out, cleared his throat a little, tried to move but Arthur kept him there for a bit longer. 

Arthur suddenly shifted to sit up a little, but it wasn’t to leave. He grabbed John and pushed him to lay flat on his back. He did so willingly, his eyes stuck on Arthur. The painter leaned over him, one arm carrying his weight, the other sliding his hand up to just rest at John’s neck. To feel John swallow, his thumb running over John’s stubble.  He could feel his cheeks burn as he just let Arthur concentrate on him. Didn’t know exactly what he was doing, or what was going on in that head. Couldn’t read his expression. It would be so easy for Arthur to  _ squeeze _ , and every instinct in John’s body was telling him that he would. Memories of rope and hands attempting to the same thing gnawing at the very back of his mind. John didn’t move.

Arthur leaned down and kissed him and when he pulled away John saw he looked a little concerned. A look he hasn’t really seen in him before, cogs working at thoughts he couldn’t try to guess. John tried to lighten the mood a little, hoping those thoughts were anything but regret.

“You threatenin’ me, Morgan?”

Arthur rubbed at John’s throat a bit, gentle. “Naw. Just thinkin’.” 

“Must be difficult.”

“Mm. Could change my mind.” And Arthur’s grip became just a tad firmer and John’s hand quickly grabbed Arthur’s wrist. He stopped immediately but laughed. “Hey, easy. Was just playin’.” 

John relaxed some but narrowed his eyes, “A stupid game, now ain’t it.” Arthur moved his hand from his throat to pass through John’s hair. Kissed him again.

“Ain’t nothin’. You’re just jumpy.” 

John rolled his eyes and pushed Arthur off of him to sit up. 

“I’m gonna go make coffee.” 

When John sat on the edge of the bed, half bending down to grab his clothes, he could feel Arthur’s gaze on him. He looked back, “Just  _ what _ is with you?” And even if he asked it, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted a real answer. Arthur wouldn't give him one.

“Nothin’, Johnny. Just go make coffee.” 

The nickname made him give Arthur a weird look. Arthur’s expression didn’t change, didn’t explain himself, John forced himself to disregard it and stood up. Got his clothes on. Went to the kitchen with a small limp. It wasn't an unfamiliar ache, but it wasn't welcomed. John Marston grumbled all the way to the kitchen.

Tried to process what an interesting morning it had come to be. Not in any negative way, no, but Arthur was acting  _ odd.  _ Different. Thankfully not cold, he wasn’t pushing him away. It felt like he wasn’t telling him something. The urge to swipe his journal was itching at him, clawing at the back of his mind with urgency John struggled to ignore. He was making coffee right now. This wasn’t a time to plan how to swipe Arthur’s journal- A private space with all of Arthur’s inner thoughts. All his secrets. John failed. His mind ended up wandering to the infinite ways he could figure to swipe the article. For future references, of course. 

John leaned on the balcony to finish his coffee, enjoying the beginning of the day. It was cool, felt a little wet. It must have rained in the night. John’s tension and anxiety felt like it was on the back burner in his mind. He felt relaxed. Felt like he could take anything this day could throw at him. What a wonder sexual tension was. 

Arthur wasn’t out of bed by the time John was all ready to get back to the realities of his life, but he was a bit more clothed. John had to correct himself, Arthur truly looked best like  _ that.  _ He seemed just as relaxed, half clothed, his hair a bit of a mess. Clung to his face in a way it's never before. That small amount of light from the doorway doing just enough to highlight Arthur's skin, knew he was tacky with sweat. He was writing in his journal and fully distracted as John grabbed the last of his things and told him goodbye. 

 

The rest of the morning went smoothly too. Grabbed food at the saloon as well as a bath. Stopped by the tailor to get a new suit. Ignored how little spending money he had. 

Returning to his friends wasn’t even that bad. Found the building easily and when he knocked it was Javier who opened up.

“ _ Hey! _ How’ve you been, John?” 

“Just fine, Javier. You?” 

“Been alright. Been pretty tense around here. That Bronte has been really putting a stressor on Dutch. Feels like everybody’s been on edge.” 

“I hear you.” 

“And with you bein’ gone..” 

“Sorry about that. I’m here now, okay?” He walked past Javier and his friend patted him on his back as he passed.

 

“ _ Mister Marston!”  _ Grimshaw flagged him down, John stopped in his tracks and exhaled, preparing himself for the lecture that was bound to happen. 

“Miss Grimshaw.” He tipped his hat to greet her.

“Where have you been!? We’ve all been working hard to make this place work and you’ve been off doing god knows what.” Her hands were placed firmly on her hips. 

“I’ve been putting any money I make in the box.” 

“I know that, Mister Marston. It just wouldn’t kill you to stop by more often, you know.” 

“I know. Promise I’ll do better. Have a feelin’ I’m gonna have this talk with every single person in this damn place.” He chuckled, she didn’t. Least she didn’t seem entirely mad at him anymore. 

“That’s your own damn fault, now ain’t it? Dutch wants to talk to you upstairs, been wanting to since yesterday, so hurry along now.” 

“Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.” 

She went off and the moment she stepped into the next room he heard her yelling at Karen. 

A loud “Why don’t we get MAAAAAIDS.” was shouted back.

“No drunkard like you needs a maid! Get to work!”

 

John didn’t stay for the rest of the conversation, favoring the stairs. He didn’t see Abigail yet, he wondered if she was in the kitchen. He remembered he never got Pearson that food money. Huh. 

He hardly got up a step before he heard more familiar yelling.

“John! Hey, John! Kind of you to return to us lowly commoners, huh?” Uncle practically giggled. John couldn’t say he was half as amused.

“Off to see Dutch, if you don’t mind.” 

“Oh, of  _ course.”  _ The man’s voice thick with sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want to hold up such an important conversation. I’ll just go back to what I was doin’ without you  _ politely  _ askin’ how I’ve been, not like you care at all.” 

“I don’t. You’re right.” John leaned on the banister looking down at him. 

“Naw, you don’t mean that.” 

“And who says I don’t?” 

Uncle paused for a second before speaking confidently. “Me a course!” 

John just rolled his eyes and started up the stairs again as Uncle burst in laughter.

“Someday you’re gonna have to face your responsibilities like the rest of us, John!” He continued to laugh and John was taken off guard enough to stop.

“Responsibilities? Think you’d be the last person tellin’ me about that. Hell, didn’t think you could say the word.”

“I do plenty!” 

“A drinkin’!” John yelled behind himself and continued going up the stairs, ending the conversation. He could hear Uncle saying things but he successfully ignored it. 

Molly passed him on his way with a small “John.” He just tipped his hat to her.

 

When he found Dutch he was in his room standing over some blueprints. John knocked on the door twice to announce himself. Cleared his throat.

“Hello John.” And with his tone John suddenly remembered the foot they left off on. The man didn't turn to look at him right away, and when he did John wanted to back out of the room. He stepped forward confidently instead.

“Dutch.” 

“How good it is to see you.” There was a mean tone in his voice despite how nice it was ever supposed to be intended, “I’ve already been over the plan with the boys. There is an  _ auction _ , John. This Sunday night.” 

“Yeah?” He walked over to the table that had the floor plan on it. “Where’d you get this?”

“Met a very helpful gentleman, down at the  _ docks _ . He’s been oh, so helpful.”

John didn’t know how to take his words, but he wondered if he was implying certain things . He was holding the same tone as he did in San Francisco. The unhinged behavior that drove them to get sloppy. Distrust and venom.

“Who is this  _ help.” _

“That is not important, right now, I need you to trust me. I know- I  _ know _ , you’ve been  _ doubting. Ol' Dutch,  _ losing it, right, John?  Things went sideways back there, as you love, haha,  _love_ to remind me. And I'll take the blame, I guess, that you have thrusted upon me for what is an apparent group effort of mishaps.  If you, _If you had just trusted me.._ If you had stuck to the  _ plan,  _ John _." _

John blinked. “Wh... _What?_ I didn’t stick to the plan? Dutch- I was there! The plan didn’t work because it was half a one! I had no back up- I couldn’t- The dogs, and you  _ left me!” _

Dutch eyes narrowed, voice dropping into a whisper, “ _ I did no such thing.  _ And you watch your tone. Think Callanders are right about the hounds takin' most of that brain, John.  _ What happened to you?  _ You’ve been off with some strangers, you’ve been pulling away every chance you get. You have been tellin’ me you are with me- When you are  _ not with me.  _ I have had a damn PLAN. Through ALL OF THIS. Yet you  _ doubt.  _ Because-because of a little  _ mistake.”  _

“A little mistake. Alright then, if that’s all it  _ was. _ ” John forced out, his hands thrown in the air. “What is this plan then, Dutch? What, what is this  _ Auction House, huh? _ ” There was so much to fight there, but he knew it was useless to continue. As much as John could argue and fight, fighting with Dutch was always useless. Forced him to his thoughts of running away again, this tension between him becoming unbearable. 

Dutch paused, “A man, a man I’ve introduced myself to, a  _ Micah Bell. _ He has informed me of this auction, hosted by a woman by the name Jenny Kirk. Apparently a lovely girl, easily bought I hear. And right now, our friend Mister  _ Bronte  _ has been her number one buyer. If we get into this auction and take this art. John, these are apparent  _ originals. _  And it would be so brilliantly pulled right from under him. After the shipments, now this. He'd be forced to act. ” 

“Uhuh. And how do we trust this, this man you have found yerself upon?” John could hardly focus, still shaking with anger. 

“He gave us the information on the Reiches Gebaude Gallery.” 

“Which one?”

“Last week.”  _ When you were gallivanting with those new friends of yours,  _ John knew he was thinking.

“Oh.”

“And lastly, our new friend, he has  _ supplied us _ with the crucial information to a proper infiltration of this auction house. Are you up for this, John? Or do you have anything else  _ smart  _ to say _.” _

John had plenty of smart things he wanted to say. “I guess I am, just. Give me the details.” 

Dutch went over the plan with him, and John felt it was actually thorough. Not entirely new, they’ve robbed plenty of auction houses before. Their only problem would be to tell if any were fakes or not, it was usually a gander. Abigail had a great eye for that kind of thing, but she hasn’t been on any heists since Jack was born. Verifying the authenticity in auctions usually would take up to a week.

It was a lucky thing he knew exactly who would know what would be fakes and what wouldn’t.

John just didn’t know if he wanted to get them involved. He didn’t want to know if he wanted his worlds to collide. The sea crashing into the shore. 

John wanted to run away. He didn’t know how, but he was feeling desperate. He had a taste of what it could be like- He thought of a small house, away from the population. It wouldn’t have chandeliers, it wouldn’t have red suede curtains, but it’d be peaceful. No stuffy parties. No politicians or boring, financial drama. 

He didn’t know if Abigail would want particular that sort of life, but he knew she was itching to leave whatever this is for years now. They’ve had fights over it plenty, only worsened since California. He guessed he owed it to her. Owed it to Jack too.

Most of all, he wanted Arthur in his life too. He wanted to be shown how to live like he did. It’d be a lot to ask of him, it’d be a lot to ask of Abigail.

 

Before John left the complex he stopped by the kitchen where Abigail did end up being, she was chatting with Pearson as she did the dishes for him. John walked over and gently set a hand on her arm. She whipped her attention to him, startled, and John didn't apologize.

“When I get back we need to talk.” He was firm. She looked into his eyes.

“Okay.. What about, John?” Her nose scrunched in her familiar way, she set down the plate in her hands.

“It’s..” John glanced to Pearson who was humming to himself then back to her. “It’s about Dutch. Hell, it’s about a lot of things.” 

She paused but she nodded. “Okay. Go on then. You know where I'll be.” 

John nodded and took one last look at Pearson’s back before leaving. 

 

Arthur and Hosea were exactly where he knew they would be too. Arthur was, unfortunately, a lot more clothed, but not any less handsome. He was leaning against the counter of the small shop. Shop? Office? John had no idea what this classified as. He’s never seen a customer in here, all of their work was commission he had to assume. If it wasn't, John worried for the state of their business. There was a stranger with them and when John entered they looked at him like he was breaking and entering. 

He had red hair, was young. John wasn’t fully prepared for how thick of an Irish accent he had.

“And who might you be?” As inquisitive as it was, it was aggressive. Would this be how he treated innocent customers?

“Er, John. John Marston.” He put out his real name just as confidently as he put out his hand. 

Sean looked at his hand and laughed, “Oi, this the fella you been tellin’ me about, Hosea? Didn’t tell me he looked like he’s been runned over, did ya! Pack a wolves do that, mate? Hit the bad end of a knife, huh?” He cracked up, John bristled and put his hand away.

“ _Excuse_ _me?”_

“ _ Sean.”  _ Arthur sighed, “You  _ really _ gotta start a fight with every damn person you meet?” 

That just made Sean laugh some more, “That’d take a lotta fun outta life now wouldn’t it, Morgan? Not everybody can hole emself in their room gettin’  _fucked up_ on paint now can they?” His argument made no sense. John couldn’t believe he was talking to Arthur that way and Arthur wasn’t punching him.

“Is he always like this?” John asked.

Hosea piped up, “Almost always. I’ve been told he grows on you.” 

“Oh ya! Grew on Arthur Morgan. Even if the sad bastard won’t admit it! Bunch a pals we are!” 

Arthur scratched at his brow, “Grows alright. Like a disease.” 

“What can we do ya for?” He finally asked John. It not being an insult made John’s thought stall. What was he here for again?

Oh, right. “I need to speak to them. If you, if you don’t mind.” 

Sean looked to Arthur and Hosea before shrugging dramatically. “I see, alright then, I’ll fuck off. Arthur, you’re still up for tonight, ya?” He started walking off.

“ _ Hell no. _ ” Arthur scoffed. 

Sean nodded, “Great! I’ll let em know you’ll be there, if yer done mopin’ by then.” 

“I ain’t- Just get outta here!” 

“And please let dear Jenny know I’ll have the paperwork done by tomorrow!” Hosea shouted after him.

“Sure thing!” Sean was halfway out the door.

“And let Tilly know it starts at 7!  _ PM _ , Sean.” 

“Uhuh!” And the door slammed behind him. John just met the man and he had no faith the boy would follow through with Hosea's requests.

Collectively the three of them sighed. 

Hosea broke the silence, “What did you need, John?” 

Again, he had to think of what he came here for. 

“There’s an auction, I need your help.” He started and spilled the details afterwards. Whatever he had, what he needed from them, and he knew he sounded frustrated. He couldn’t keep himself unbiased. A bit of a discomposed description of what he recalled, his stress emptied on each word.

Hosea ended up knowing this Jenny Kirk, he knew a lot, actually. This was good for the heist, but awful for keeping his worlds from colliding. Arthur stayed mostly silent through it all, letting Hosea do all the talking, but he felt his eyes on him.

“Say, Arthur, how many in the show are honest?” Hosea asked aloud, “Three?”

“Mm.” He grunted and scratched his beard. “Would say so. That  _ I  _ know of.” Hosea nodded to that.

“Bronte’s shipments have been getting interfered with-“ A convenient clear of Arthur's throat got Hosea to pause. John glared at him. Hosea looked to Arthur before continuing, “So there has been a dip in the, erm, authenticity of the art displayed at any auctions that he funds. Which, isn’t many to begin with. I’m surprised you’re going for this auction house, it’s not a particularly interesting one.”

“Dutch-Er, my boss.. Reckon he’s tryin’ to start a war, I guess.” 

“A war, huh?” Hosea set his hands on his hips.    
“Somethin’ like that.”    
“What an interesting strategy. Completely predictable, of course, but interesting. I wonder if he has the man power to pull it off. Unlikely, I'd say, but possibly.” Hosea spoke like he was speaking to himself. Processing all of the information John gave him.    
Arthur spoke up. “John,” He chuckled a little bit. “John, you are a special kinda idiot.” His nose scrunched. Arthur didn’t let him respond. “If you- You and  _ Dutch Van Der Linde  _ rob the Saint Denis Auction House. You’d be stealin’ directly from yours truly, Marston.” 

John paled. John really was a special kind of idiot. 

He had just spilled Dutch’s entire plan to Arthur and Hosea. Of course they knew Jenny Kirk. Of course they knew everything about the auction. If they were smart men, like John knew they were, they'd easily use his information to ruin their heist.

John Marston inadvertently became a  _ rat.  _ John reflexively set his hand on his holster, his eyes looking between Arthur and Hosea with dread.

“ _ John. _ ” Arthur quickly try to ease, his voice a bit of a softer tone. A hand raising slowly. “Set that hand away, it’s okay. Calm yerself.” And only because it was Arthur Morgan he let his hand slowly relax.    
“You haven’t done anything wrong, my boy. If anything, you’ve been quite helpful.” 

John scoffed. “Helpful? I offered us up on a silver platter. Hell, could provide my own cuffs if you’d like, walk myself to the station while I’m at it.” He tried to laugh. He really tried to laugh.   
Hosea shook his head, “That won’t be necessary. You know, Dutch Van Der Linde used to be a friend of ours.”    
John blinked. “Pardon?” Arthur seemed a bit startled by Hosea too.

“Yes, I know. We were a bit stunned to hear his name come this far East. Haven’t seen him in, oh.. How long has it been, Arthur?”    
“Comin’ to 10 years, I bet.” 

“Heard he went to California. When I met you, a man from California, I had a sneakin’ suspicion he’d be the one causing a real ruckus. It had Dutch written all over it.”

As a surprise as it was, it  _ relieved him.  _ Freaked him out a little bit, didn’t expect two strangers he met to know Dutch Van Der Linde, made the world seem small, or perhaps Dutch omnipresent.    
“You know, John, I’m surprised _you_ d-” Hosea began.

“What we’re tryin’ to say, John.” Arthur interrupted. “We’ll look away at this heist a yours. Hell, we can tell you a couple things to make sure it goes real smooth for you boys. On the house.” Arthur approached John, set a hand on his shoulder, closer to his neck than a casual friend would. “But, you know, I’ve got a request.” 

John looked right into Arthur’s eyes, his gaze unyielding and firm.

 

* * *

 

The request wasn’t entirely wild.

 

“ _ Let me paint you.” _ It wasn’t said in any particular way. Just as any request was usually made by a person to another person. Hosea laughed and endorsed the request. 

 

So here they were back at Arthur’s apartment. His head swimming a bit from the sheer chaos of the day. His brain mulling over everything. Followed Arthur up quietly like a little puppy, wondered why they weren’t going out of the city for, didn’t really feel like asking aloud. Arthur didn’t say much, the comfortable silence that usually sat over them lay lazily there like it usually did. Only John was itching to ask him about Dutch. 

The neighbor Lenny was leaving and Arthur greeted him and Lenny greeted the both of them cheerfully. This would be the second time he’s interacted with the man and John already liked the feller. Charming in a way not too many men were nowadays. Had one of those genuine smiles.

Arthur let them both into the apartment and locked the door behind them. John walked to the middle of the apartment and stood there uselessly. It was a pretty new request of him. He’s been in plenty of Arthur’s paintings, but never once has Arthur outright  _ asked him _ . Always an afterthought rather than a focus point. He wondered what that meant. Wondered why he’d want to paint somethin’ as ugly as his face.   
  
“If I’m gonna do this,” Arthur broke John from his thoughts. “We gotta drink a bit.” He laughed it out. His movements a bit dramatic, in disbelief. He had no idea how to take that.

“Yeah? I ain’t ever turned down whiskey.” John went over and erected the seat he knocked over the day before and sat himself down. Arthur snorted and set down two bottles of whiskey on the table firmly. 

“That so, Johnny boy?” 

John shrugged dramatically and Arthur grabbed a shot glass. 

 

It was an oddly  _ warm _ experience, drinking with Arthur. In a light he didn’t see him often. He had pulled up a stool from the other side of the room so he could sit and face John and they drank Arthur lost a lot of his stoic energy. Smiled a lot more. He shared stories he's never heard before, each one interesting and wild. John shared his own because truly, the west had plenty. Whether it be the irony Californian politician choking to death on a shrimp rather than the poisoned champagne in front of him, or the absolute wonder of men blowing themselves up with the very dynamite they intended to blast a safe with. A safe that contained only three dollars. They drank and talked long enough for Arthur to have to light the lanterns in the room. They gave the room a warm glow.

“So, how’d,” He cleared his throat, recovering from laughing at a stupid story Arthur had to share about an artist he’d became familiar with, “How’d you know Dutch?” 

Arthur quieted down a bit, his weight fully leaned on the table. His expression, it shifted a little. Enough for tipsy John to notice it. “Mm, it’s a long story.” 

“Think I’ve got the time.” John smiled a bit, nudged over another shot towards Arthur.

“Long and boring.” Arthur threw the shot back easy and cleared his throat. “Nothin’ but stale memories at this point. Ain’t interesting.” 

“If you say so, Morgan.” He wouldn’t pry, but Arthur wouldn’t know that he could be really talking about anything right now and John would be fully interested. 

“Alright, well!” The man stood up slowly but John didn’t, just looking up at Arthur until he beckoned John to stand too. “Let’s get to this before I change my mind.” 

John snickered a bit, “Gonna make me a real life Mona Lisa?”

Arthur just laughed and walked over to his supplies. Set up an easel. Paints. Whistling to himself, humming. John walked up beside him, set a hand on his side. “Anything I can-” 

“Go grab the chair and set it over there.” He pointed sloppily at the corner of the room and John immediately obeyed. Set it down so firmly like he was owning the spot. It was his. He sat himself in it with just as much certainly. Held himself presidential like, upright and head turned.

“Like this?” 

“Never like that.” Arthur stated flatly, his head peeking over the canvas. John laughed and relaxed himself again.

“How am I supposed to be then?” John asked and Arthur came up to him. He couldn’t keep a dumb smile off his face looking up at him. The anxieties of his day melting off with his company and alcohol. Arthur grabbed at him a little, forcing him to shift his shoulders, his eyes glanced down to John's mouth and John tilted his head a bit as Arthur leaned down to kiss him open mouthed and slow. His hands found themselves to hold onto Arthur. This probably wasn't very productive to being taught how to model.

Arthur didn’t stop kissing him, kissed him enough to forget what they were doing. Arthur’s hands pushing off John’s jacket. Undid the buttons of his shirt, of his vest. Put his hands on places that made John shudder. Kissed at his exposed neck, making him a real sweet mess sitting in the creaky chair. John clutched at Arthur, his hands attempting terribly to undo the painter’s clothes. Each time he was nearly successful Arthur’s hands took his and redirected them somewhere else. John was too drunk to really catch on until Arthur fully pulled away. Left John half naked and flustered while he stayed fully clothed. 

“Like that.” Arthur finally replied and John really didn’t even know what he had originally said for the response. 

“Huh?” John reaches for him lazily and Arthur took his hand to place it in John’s lap. John slowly caught on. “Are you..” 

Arthur just laughed and nodded. “Stay still, boy.” He walked back to his easel and John was left to be stunned, blushing, turned on, shocked at the very thought. To be painted nearly  _naked._ Dizzied with lust. It wasn't unheard of in the art world, but it was when it was of John Marston. No one would want to see that.

“You are a fucking  _ bastard,  _ Arthur Morgan.” He laughed some more, rubbed at his face. “You ain’t paintin’ this.” 

“I am.” He heard him say behind the canvas, heard painting sounds. The sound of a brush thick with paint smacking the surface of canvas. He couldn't believe Arthur was really at this. “Keep movin’ around and I’ll make sure you become real good friends with that chair.” 

“I don’t know how to be like! You-you ain’t paintin’ me, Morgan.” 

“I just told you how to be like!” Arthur was laughing, saw him peeking over the canvas and pointing his paintbrush at him. John couldn’t find himself to stop moving, not embarrassed, but drunk. 

“This?” He leaned in the chair a bit, attempting comfort. Arthur grunted in approval. John went quiet for a real while, thirty whole seconds. “Can’t believe you takin’ advantage a me like that.”

“Oh, you’ll get over it.” 

He did, and he did quickly. Got bored too. His head lulled to the sighed, his lack of coordination making him a bit dramatic. The conversation “You done yet?” with reply of “Almost.” happened six times. 

The sound of painting was actually pretty soothing. Arthur’s humming was equally nice. When Arthur hummed a song he knew he would join in a little, snickering as they both only knew certain parts. Slurred and stupid. It was genuinely fun _.  _ It felt lighthearted, sweet, and John wanted to keep feeling this way. Even as drunk as he was.

And in the end of the 38 minutes Arthur took to finish the painting, John found himself half passed out. The entire floor feeling like it was gently spinning under him, even if his eyes were shut. Consciousness dipping in and out.

 

“Alright, I’m done. Get over here.” 

John snapped awake and near fell out of his chair. “Hm? Nn, hell. Really?” He rubbed the exhaustion off his face and scratched at his bare chest. Had to force himself to his feet to hobble over to take a look at the painting.

It stunned John into silence. It was a dramatic piece full of color, thick brushstrokes, and, well  _ him.  _ How Arthur saw him relaxed in the chair. His hair in his face and attention off to the side, clearly a bit flustered. It felt intimate the way he painted him, raw, somehow gorgeous. It was a style he’s never seen Arthur paint before. Even drunk Arthur was still talented as hell _. _

“Wow.” 

Arthur took a swig if the whiskey he had accompanying him. Laughed a little bit. 

“That bad, huh?”

“Think,” he pointed at the painting, “Think you gave me too much credit, Morgan. Little, little uh, artistic  _ liberty.  _ I do not look drunk enough .” John snickered. “But I’ll tell you what, I’d steal this. Make some rich bastard pay four hundred for it, I would.” 

“Four hundred? Boy, you flatter me.” Arthur pawed at John’s middle and he stumbled a bit. Caught himself. They both were laughing again and then John found himself kissing him. They were a disaster, hands grabbing and tugging. Nearly knocked the easel over but Arthur caught it coating his hand in wet paint.

And this meant John was immediately coated in wet paint. A small fight of uncoordinated hands and blue acrylic ended with the two of them in a real mess, falling to the floor where they ended up staying. Their playful energy shifting into something intimate and John convinced Arthur to make love to him there on the floor. Sloppy, drunk, and covered in paint. He couldn't think of anywhere else he’d rather be than there. The sex wasn't amazing, but it was still with Arthur. John couldn't complain.

They fell asleep on the floor, John using Arthur as a pillow. Even if the world still spun while he wasn't moving, the slow breathing of his partner kept him grounded. Made everything okay despite his life catching fire. He was determined to keep this, to make it all work. And John decided he would do anything to achieve that.  
  
The night didn't bring dreams except for a small house by a lake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rewrote this chapter 5 times, please take some fluff as an offering for putting off the heist for an extra chapter


	7. Palette

There was shuffling, a click, then a slam of the front door. Then silence.

When John opened his eyes he was met with a faint hangover and confusion. The room he found himself in was dark, familiar, Arthur’s. Memory cloudy, body achey, naked yet covered in a blanket. The bed creaked when he sat himself up and he imagined Arthur was nice enough to put him there. John rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, thinking about last night. He laughed in thought, remembering how stupid it was, how pleasant he found it. 

He was thinking yesterday about how he planned to keep this all together, to pursue a way to have that house on the lake. Something he didn’t care about before- Having a simple life- When he wanted a large mansion, velvet sofas-  _ He found out his freedom meant something different before.  _

John scratches at his scars then looked at his hands. They were covered in blue paint and he laughed again. 

John found that Arthur had already made coffee, and the place was a little cleaned up than last night. His clothes he found were in a pile to the side. The empty bottles of whiskey set on the table. The easel sat in the middle of the room, empty. John drank his coffee, naked as God made him, inspecting the place casually. He pushed his messy hair out of his face and exhaled. He had to get back to Dutch. Get back to his life that he had still crumbled in his lap.

John grabbed his clothes and went to the bathroom to clean himself up and get dressed. Paint really covered a lot of him, blinking at the mirror and laughing. He shook his head as he worked water over his skin to scrub away the mess. It was tough, and his skin got red and mean. He rubbed away some at his neck and looked in the mirror closer. 

“Damn bastard marked me.” He scrubbed at his skin a bit more, the acrylic washing away, but the hickeys didn’t. He hoped his clothing would hide it. It better.

One piece at a time John figured out quickly that his skin was not the only thing attacked by paint and ruin. His shirt fit fine, and did him favors in hiding the marks, his vest and jacket too. His pants, however..

“The hell?” He fixed them and stared at the mess. A clear blue hand print pressed on the front of his crotch. He went speechless for awhile, just staring at it, wondering what the fuck he should do. “Well, this won’t work.” He muttered aloud.

To Arthur’s room he went, praying for pants that fit him.  To even find pants, actually. Wardrobe made the most sense, but when he opened it up it contained artillery and medicine. John stares at the assortment.

A repeater caught his eye, a Lancaster. He carefully removed it and looked it over, felt the wood and weight. It had an intricate detailing. Seemed worn, but loved. He fixed it to his shoulder and aimed it. Some painter. Seemed to have kept everything from his past. John was immediately curious on everything else here and now he had the time to investigate. He set the gun exactly where he found it and shut the doors.

He brought himself to the side of the room that he wasn’t able to see from the bed: That desk full of trinkets, pictures, paperwork. It wasn’t cluttered, John noticed. Two picture frames, one placed face down, the other sitting firmly and of a woman. It was less interesting than the picture facing down and when John picked it up he found a clear difference between the two, and who they were to the painter. John set the photo back face down. 

The images tacked were interesting too, pictures of a dog, a mugshot of a man with Arthur’s last name, a picture of some wolves. Other nature shots. John has the weird impulse to touch each one, leaning over to inspect it all. He didn’t understand his need to snoop, he usually couldn’t give much of a rats ass. He definitely wouldn’t want anyone in his business either. John was a hypocrite.

He proved so by opening the drawers of the desk and with the shift in wood he quickly looked to the door. He expected Arthur to be there standing ominously, angry, catching his damn fingers in the honey again. Seriously,  _ why was he so good at that.  _ But luckily for John, he didn’t. John continued his search for information.

The desk contained paperwork, cigarette cards, interesting photos of gunslingers. Letters, lots of letters. Love letters? John opened up a few.

_ June 1899 _

_ Monsieur Morgan, _

_ I could not have wished for better fruits of our partnership… _ . Hmmm…. Authenticated… Americanism……… Chips to Cash?? Come back to the Mayoral…...

_ Your friend,  _

_ Henri Lemieux _

Arthur did favors for the mayor. What kind of favors, John couldn’t confirm, but the mayor seemed pleased with his work. Enough for the man to seem to consider Arthur a friend. John folded the letter back and placed it to where he found it. The rest of the stuff was just generally expected from a man who seemed to adventure, he found weird trinkets too. Talisman, maybe. He found jewelry that had to have had stories. A Native American ring, he thinks. Letters from interesting people that existed here in America.

John didn’t read nearly any of it, skimming some of them, inspecting the writer on all of them. He wasn’t always regarded as Arthur Morgan, neither. An Arthur Callahan, or a Tacitus Kilgore. The alias caught him off guard completely, recognizing it. John narrowed his eyes as he dig deeper into the depths of what seemed to be Arthur’s past.

There were some newspaper clippings, most alluding to famous paintings coming out as forged. Just as many coming out and apologizing for fictional journalism, claiming authenticity on said paintings. 

One caught his eye.

One describing a job. A robbery that jogged John’s memory a bit, something clouded resurfacing. Described a robbery from the Van Der Linde Gang, taking that money and giving it to the poor. John didn’t know if he was directly involved in this specific robbery, could have well been before his time. Before the  _ ten years that Arthur and Hosea knew Dutch.  _

John tried to come up with excuses on why Arthur would have this clipping, but it was fruitless. John knew exactly why and it forced him to sit down. 

He remembered a mean young man throwing dirt at him. Remembered a mean young man leaving him in a field to go drinking. He remembered despising this man, he remembered looking up to him. 

It made sense to why John forgot his name, an Arthur wasn’t exactly a unique. And when they left, Dutch refused to speak of them. 

_ When they left.  _

Bessie, Hosea, Arthur. They had just upped and gone. John couldn’t have been 13. Remembered all the stories of them, he remembered how mean Dutch got after. John respected Dutch, and he was proud to be his only prodégé. Always listened, never questioned.

Hosea, he didn’t fully remember as much. Taking him hunting maybe. Made sure he never ate too fast to keep him from throwing it back up. Bessie was nice too. Gentle just as Hosea was. They were still traitors that Dutch vowed to shoot if they ever came back.

John was entirely conflicted on how to feel. From the Arthur and Hosea who he remembered and the Arthur and Hosea who he became to know.

He put the newspaper clipping back in the drawer. He was done snooping for today. 

The pants were in the chest, they were baggy on him, but John made them work. His ruined pants were left on the floor. 

* * *

 

 

_ “Dutch,”  _ John brought in a breath. “ _ Dutch, I’ve gotta speak to you.”  _

His loyalty was being tested. 

“What is it, son?” The man was where he usually stood. Atop the stairs, a cigar in hand. They had the heist in a couple days, Dutch looked particularly unbothered. Thank god.

The two of them already were entering the bedroom and Dutch yelled for Molly to scram. She did so with a sharp look and an upturned head. 

Left them alone.

“I’ve.” The door slammed, John didn’t know what to do with his hands so he clenched them tight. “Come to some information.” 

Dutch scowled at him, something he’s come to get used to. “Not coming to tell me how I’m doing everything wrong? That’s new.” 

”No.” He said in response. When you’re scared you act like you’re not, that’s how it was. His shoulders wanted to slump but he raised them instead. John found something about himself here that he didn’t like, that he did inherently still felt loyal to Dutch, despite his nasty behavior. Despite everything. He still came clean. “These people I have found myself with. You know, the painter?” 

“Yes?”

“They was sayin’ they knew you.”

He didn’t react the way he thought he would, but that was mostly the fault of John’s ambiguity. Dutch couldn’t read his mind, even if sometimes he felt like he could. This could very well set him off and John wished he was on Dutch’s side.

“What do you mean, they knew me.” 

“Hosea Matthews. Arthur Morgan. They- They said they knew you.” 

Dutch went quiet. 

“Hosea…. Hosea  _ Matthews _ .. Is in Saint Denis?” He sounded calm. John knew he wasn’t. Or maybe he was? It was uncertain now, terrifying.

“Yessir.” 

“How did you meet them? What do they do?” 

John came clean. John felt a mixture of shame for himself because of it. “An art dealer. Arthur has found himself a painter. I don’t remember them much, Dutch. I didn’t know it was them- I swear that.” 

He walked closer and set his hand on John’s shoulder, a change in behavior that was chilling. “I know. I know, son. Thank  _ you,  _ for telling me.” He paused. “I know you have been doubting me, I know it seems like you have lost trust in me, and I  _ apologize,  _ for  _ breaking  _ that- That  _ trust.  _ But I remember, you stayed with me when everyone left. You, me, and…. Annabelle.” 

The memories were foggy still, small snippets of past jogging in his mind. The campfires. John’s first parties. First theft of something larger than himself. Just the three of them. The bitterness of being left alone. John was familiar with heartbreak like that, it hardly phased him and it’s no wonder he didn’t remember, but it meant something to Dutch. John feels it’s only gotten worse, especially after Annabelle's death.

When John didn’t say anything, Dutch left his shoulder and stepped away. Continued to talk.

“Hiding in Saint Denis… an  _ art dealer.  _ This all got a little bit more complicated. Not in a bad way, no. More personal..” He grunted. 

He nodded, worried. “I talked to them about the auction. They promised, er, to help us get it all out.” 

Dutch narrowed his eyes at him. “And why would they promise that?” 

John shrugged. Not about to tell him about the painting.

“They like me, I reckon.” 

“They like you.” He repeated. “They trust you?” 

John nodded. 

“Do they know who you are?”

“Don’t think so.” He said with certainty, when in actuality he was the farthest from certain.

Dutch smiled. 

“Perfect. Oh John, this is  _ perfect.  _ I can make this work. John, this...is beautiful.” He laughed and rolled the cigar between his fingers. In thought. Hatching something John couldn’t dream to figure. John decides that drowning was better than this. That sea coming up over his head wasn’t allowing him to die and he wanted to drown. “This, changes everything.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ll be downstairs.” And Dutch was too preoccupied thinking. Planning, rolling ideas in his head as fluently as he did his cigar. Leaving was easy. 

He cursed himself, he felt awful. And he knew he did the right thing, he thinks. It shouldn’t have been a dilemma in the first place. Not with Dutch. Not with the man who he owed his life to, but...

John thought of the warmth of Arthur’s smile. The way he perfectly held him tight, the trust that had grown between them. 

Of course he would choose the man who had raised him, the closest thing to a father figure he had ever known, but it was all falling apart. He was trying to escape. The house by the lake now seemed unattainable. Fear and despair wore at his shoulders. They had the auction soon. Tomorrow if he got the day right.

Plenty of time to crawl into Arthur’s lap and beg for forgiveness like the despicable dog he felt like. 

John was ruining the wood in the railing with how hard he was digging his fingernails in.

 

“John.” Abigail spoke and her voice ripped him back to reality.

“What is it _ now _ ?” He snapped, her eyes shocked at the tone. John was too but didn’t apologize.

“Oh is now not the right time?” She sneered, her balance shifted dramatically. 

“Is it ever. Can’t you leave a man be?” And while he changed his tone he still wasn’t in the mood.

She laughed in disbelief. “Excuse me. I didn’t know I was botherin’ a  _ man.”  _ He looked to her with anger in his eyes, she stood defiant. “A  _ man _ would think about his son. A man would think about his home.” 

It hit a raw spot. Why did she have to start this now? “Enough of this! Abigail, I am not speaking to you about this, especially at the damn moment.” 

“Then when, John? Your son needs a father, and while I doubt you would ever be a good one, you’re off. Saying you need to speak to me- Where  _ are you? _ ” God, how many times has he heard that now.

He bristled. “I said, I ain’t talkin’ about this! Are you dumb?” He was digging a hole.

“Dumb enough to keep thinking you’d man up, yes. Idiot,  _ idiot man.” _

“Oh blame it  _ all  _ on me, Abigail. Go ahead.” He sneered. 

“I plan too, since it seems to be the truth.” She started walking away, her dress bunched up. 

“Good then!” He called after her.

 

This day. 

 

Oh, it has gone  _ awry. _

 

John leaned over the railing and held his head in his hands.

 

* * *

 

Telling Dutch was a mistake. It was, John found it to be, such a dumb, idiot mistake. 

For the rest of the day, when he cooled down, Dutch sent him on errands. Made him a right messenger. Creating a sort of network between Hosea, Arthur, and Dutch. Made it out to be a worthy investment. John was surprised Arthur and Hosea were so eager to work with him. They had assured John it was because they liked him, unrelated to Dutch’s madness.  It made him feel good in that way, but it was scary knowing he held responsibility to keep them on his side. He guessed being honest to them as much as he was with Dutch would hold it together.

Except for the information that John knew who the two of them were. He let that secret sit inside himself. Changed how he saw the two of them, changed how he saw Arthur. They seemed to take each one of his careful words to be coming from his anxiety with Dutch.

After a long discussion of planning, of details, John found himself exhausted. Even if he found Hosea and Arthur easier to talk to, this all.. He was tired. He was trying to wrap it all up. 

“Tell Dutch we will handle the rest, John. This is our Auction after all. I’m sure he wouldn’t like to step on any toes quite yet.” Hosea’s tone was even. Relaxed as ever.

Arthur huffed a laugh, “Bet he wants to. Those shoes were made for stepping on toes.” 

“That’d be an interesting type of leather, now wouldn’t it?” Hosea offered back.

John shrugged, “Kinda. Uhm. Yeah, I’ll tell him.” He stepped back and turned to leave. The moment he grabbed the handle, he felt Arthur stop him.

“Hey,” He set his hand on his back, John looked to Arthur’s face. His eyes noticed they were a dark green in this lighting. “Whatever happens tomorrow, Marston. You remember to trust us first, got that?” 

It confused him. 

“What?” He shut the door and turned to face Arthur completely. They were roughly the same size but Arthur filled the space more. Made John feel small, he squared his shoulders a bit to compensate. 

“It’s a lot to ask, I know-“ 

“It is.” John reaffirmed.

“Just trust us. First.” 

He ignored the impulse to ask why he’d need to. Instead gave a “Okay then.” Flippant.

He didn’t leave right away, keeping their steady eye contact. And in the short time they kept it, John came to the conclusion that maybe Arthur knew who he was for awhile. Maybe his secret of knowing just who they were was dumb to hide. To trust them over Dutch was a tall task and Arthur was asking it of him. 

Asking of it of him when he knows exactly who Dutch is, and who he is to him. 

John looked to Hosea who seemed perfectly collected by the counter then he finally took his leave.

The interaction disturbed him. Made him uncertain now. Made him feel a little bit like he was alone here. In the middle of chaos.

He thought of the man that threw dirt at him over a lost 56 cents. 

He thought of the man who made love to him on the floor while they were drunk and happy.

John lit a cigarette and smoked it. 

 

The auction came up faster than he wanted it to.

Bill, John, the Callanders, and this  _ Micah.  _ As discussed, there would be no security except for Arthur and Hosea’s men. Named off three, a Charles Smith, a Sadie Adler, and a Lenny Summers. John knew Lenny, which was comforting. If anyone open fires, they will shoot to kill. Simple enough request for handing them their own paintings to piss off the person who is funding them.

The entire operation was a risk. They had to trust each other, despite everyone knowing,  _ knowing,  _ there was something more here. Everyone had their own agenda, even John himself.

It didn’t help they had someone new.

“John Marston, meet Micah Bell. Micah, meet John.” Dutch said warmly as they all approached the meeting spot. John didn’t offer his hand to him, neither did Micah.

“Ahah, so this is the lone wolf I’ve been hearing about.. A real shame you’ve been gone whenever we’ve been doing jobs. You’d think someone with such importance I would have had the chance to meet you earlier.” And the way he said it irked him. Cocky, slimy.

“Everyone I meet in this city have something smart to say?” He shook his head, chuckling in disbelief. 

“Oh, I bet everything sounds smart to you, scars.” He laughed and while he would have taken that from anyone else, this was someone new.

John’s tone got a bit firmer. “Dutch, why are we draggin’ this thing along with us?” Micah and John’s eyes kept locked. An unspoken battle of dominance.

Dutch interrupted, “ _ Because,  _ John. We need all the damn help, we can  _ get.  _ Quit with your  _ doubting.  _ You’re- _ ” _  He breathed, “always doubting.”

Bastard. 

“Boys, now lets keep this together. We should be in, and out, our friends here have made this very easy for us. I have been over with all of you and your roles. Even drunken  _ idiots  _ can pull this one off. Do you understand.”

Davey piped up. “Got it, boss.” 

“Good. We grab everything.” His word was final and when everyone was ready, they pulled their bandannas over their faces.

Entering from the back alley and making it inside they were immediately met with the smell of old perfume and dust. A vast improvement from the fresh perfume and shit from Saint Denis. The hallways were dark despite the midday, and all of them scooted inside. Thanks to Micah they knew exactly where to go, thanks to John they didn’t have to worry about guards or tactics. Made him feel proud of himself for how he helped orchestrate it. If it weren’t for the cost.

They found the showroom easy and rushed past the chairs and up the podium to be stopped by a large man. 

Seriously large, stoic looking. Black- wait, Native? John wasn’t sure, but the man was in an officers clothes and it inset  short panic. In everybody. Except a clear difference between it being loose and unbuttoned. White undershirt showing. His long hair braided. Not a Lawman he's ever seen before. John wondered if it was a disguise.

“Shoot me and it’ll be your biggest mistake. Guns down.” And when John looked behind himself all of his friends were still preparing to shoot. 

“Guns down, idiots!” John shouted behind himself, tugging his mask off his mouth.

They didn’t directly listen to John, but instead to Dutch’s inclination of setting his gun back into his holster.

“We promise you no harm. What is your name, friend?” Dutch asked warmly. He had come to the same conclusion as John did. 

“Charles Smith. Dutch Van der Linde?” The stranger asked. He had a rifle in his hands but it was kept lowered at his waist. 

“At your service, my kind sir.” Dutch walked up to him a little more confidently. Charles didn’t falter. "I must thank you for your assistance, through all of this."

“Mhm. This way then. I’m going to oversee this operation. Sadie and Lenny are at the front entrance. I assume no funny business.” 

“You don’t seem like a funny guy, Mister Smith.” Dutch said wryly. 

Charles just grunted and motioned them along. He didn’t ask for the others names, looking them over as they walked forward.

“So, how do we know we can trust you.. Some, man all in lawman garb.” Micah said slowly, his belt being fixed as he walked.

Charles answered quick. “You don’t.” 

“That right?” He asked again.

“It is.”

Dutch laughed softly ahead of John. John just looked to Charles, nodding to him, then proceeding. They had no other choice  _ but  _ to put faith in him that they wouldn’t be met with other lawmen. That they wouldn’t be walking into a trap.

The back, as they entered, was full of art. Vases, trinkets, canvases. All of it lit by a warm glow from the lights that lit up the room. He heard the men behind him sigh in relief. 

“John, Bill, Mac, take the artifacts, Micah, Mac, we take the paintings.” Dutch ordered.

They immediately started to take things off their pedestals and protective coverings and out of the room. Charles pulled his rifle over his shoulder and went to help John pick up an article heavy enough to be a two man job.

“So, uh,” John shifted the weight of the vase. “How do you know…”

“Arthur?” Charles finished. “Saint Denis is a large city, but people end up knowing a lot of people. He’s one of the better ones.” 

“Ah.” John said. Didn’t really know how to continue the conversation after. They got halfway through the building before Charles spoke up again.

“How did you meet Arthur? Kind of weird for him to let someone pull a stunt like this.” 

“It’s… a long story.” He thought about the breaking in. He thought about their relationship. “Started doin’ favors for him and Hosea.” 

Charles nodded.

They loaded the vase carefully in the wagon they had prepared. The others being equally as careful. Then walking back.

When he entered the room again, he knew something was wrong. Dutch, Micah, and Mac were standing there. Dutch and Micah silent, Mac was snickering. 

“What is it?” John walked up and instantly John wish he hadn’t.

“I was hoping you’d answer that.” Dutch said, his voice absolutely livid, it cracking mildly. 

When John pushed past Mac he paled. 

It was of him, the paintings recognizable of Arthur’s. The landscape with a small figure dressed in black. Arguably not him, except it was accompanied by other paintings of John. All of them he recognized, and thankfully there weren’t too many. Most of him being in the background, remembering those days where he just enjoyed looking up at the sky in a place he’s never been before. Arthur sitting far away to paint everything he saw. 

Then there was the one he painted of him the other night. The style put up next to the other paintings was drastically different. Shirtless, vulnerable.

He heard the other men come in, look at what they saw and they were laughing. 

“Looks like you’ve been off having a bit of fun...Can't fault a man for that, can you?” Micah laughed, John wanted to punch him. 

“Dutch. It ain’t- It ain’t what it looks like.” John tried. 

“Then please tell me, John.. Please tell me what it looks like.” He walked closer to the paintings. “Why, why after everything we have been through,” Paused, “You decide to  _ mock me.  _ I  _ raised you.  _ I  _ made you.”  _

John was struck silent. Confused, horrified, unable to fix the situation. The others weren’t laughing anymore. 

The plaques for each painting did not say Arthur Morgan.

They said Annabelle Callahan.

 

_ Trust us first. _

 

How the fuck was he supposed to trust them when he felt absolutely betrayed. Thrown under the bus. All this was was a stupid message to Dutch. A power move.

 

Everyone here, sans Micah and Charles, knew who Annabelle was. What the name Annabelle meant to Dutch. 

Dutch and John were the only ones understood what the name meant in context of this. The others only had to assume he was meeting with a secret lover named Annabelle. There'd be no reason for them to think otherwise, except perhaps Dutch's anger. They were in no position to question anything.

“Take the rest,” he ordered. “Leave these _ here _ .” 

They all obeyed.

John was about to help them but his wrist was grabbed by a very angry Dutch. John tried pulling away, but ultimately he was stuck firmly. The grip painful and John stared into Dutch’s eyes, unwavering.

“Let go a me. I didn’t mean nothin’, Dutch. You know I didn’t.” 

“Do I, John? How long have you been colluding behind my back, John? Huh?” This time Dutch let go when John pulled his arm away. The accusation hurt a little bit, even if it was somewhat true. Not in the way he meant it, never in the way he meant it.

It wasn’t all like this, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

“I ain’t colluding. I ain’t- Dutch, stop doin’ this.” 

“How LONG!?” He asked again. 

John swallowed. “Couple months I’ve known them. I only found who they was yesterday. I promise you that. I promise. I’ve been honest with you.” 

“It took you months to tell me who these men are. It took you  _ months  _ lyin’ to me where you’ve been. Pulling away from us, pulling away from me! Since when have I ever allowed you to go off on your own!?” 

The thought struck him a little weird. He guessed never. 'Cept for those couple months after Jack was born maybe, but Dutch somehow looked the other way for that. He held some independence in jobs, but rarely came up with them. Any contacts he found he reported to Dutch. Always stuck by Dutch's side. Always.

“Maybe, maybe I’m just a little tired, Dutch. Little tired of how you’ve been running things.” He didn’t cower. He stood up for himself.

“Oh,” He laughed, “Oh I am so sorry, John Marston. My boy, who I have come to raise and nurture. Who I have made to  _ be,  _ I am so sorry that my way of keeping us  _ alive  _ is not  _ good enough for you.  _ Seeking out Arthur god damn  _ Morgan!?  _ Think he’s a better leader!? Better than me?” Dutch kicked the easel over, having a right up fit. 

“No.. No, but maybe I like him a little in a way that is amicably beneficial to livin’ here in this goddamn city.” Words came fumbling out of his mouth. He was never great at arguing with Dutch. He really wasn’t. “He’s, he’s helping us, Dutch.” 

“I want you to stop seeing him. I will do the rest of the work with him. Same with this Hosea Matthews.” 

“Dutch-“ 

“Do as I SAY.” 

“Yes, Dutch.” 

He turned and he saw that there was a peanut gallery. All stricken mostly quiet, Micah looked like he was enjoying it, when John and him met eye contact he mocked embarrassment. John ignored it. He gave Charles a short nod, the man nodded back. 

John left alone. The heist was a success, even if John didn’t get to see the end of it. With Charles helping and with the two others keeping watch there was no way they could fail. Which was  _ John’s  _ effort.  _ His  _ work. Anger bubbled in him and as he rode off he didn’t know where to go. No idea where Arthur was, not Hosea. Technically  _ couldn’t see them.  _ And did he even want to right now?

John felt alone. He felt incredibly alone.

He thought about the little house by a lake. Felt the failure in his bones. Guilt for pushing away his only friend on his side. Leaving Abigail and Jack to sit at home. John buckled.  
  


“John, what are you on about?” She was still upset about their earlier conversation, he knew it. He stood here before her, her hands in his. 

“Just come with me. Get Jack. Let’s go out.” 

“Like as a family?” She scrunched her nose.

“Yeah. Like as a family.” 

She narrowed her eyes, “Is that John Marston in there? Or is someone’s life bein’ held on the line and you ain’t tellin’ me. What about that job?” 

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m serious. Go get Jack. I know this really nice place.” 

She seemed absolutely flabbergasted, fully caught off guard. “Uhm. Alright, just.. Just give me a moment.” 

Abigail walked off to get ready, Jack walked up with a small toy in hand. 

John smiled and bent down. “Hey, Jack.” 

“Hi.” 

“Want to go on a small trip?” He offered. 

Jack was more focused on his toy than anything, but slowly looked up. “What kind of trip?” 

“A fun one. You, me, and your mama.” He ruffled his hand through little Jacks hair and the boy smiled. 

“Oh, okay. Can I bring my toy?” 

“Yeah, you can bring your toy.” 

Jack brightened up and John chuckled warmly.   
  
_Remember to trust us first._ Bullshit. John decided to trust himself first.  


 

The three of them went off for a bit. John needed to cool down, but right now he didn’t want to be alone. Abigail was pleased enough by his change of heart not to fight him every step of the way. Found that Abigail probably didn’t hate him as much as he felt she did. Even if he didn’t love her the same way a man should love a wife, via technicality or not, it was nice playing family. Or being one. Hell, John didn't really know the difference.

She brought lunch. John provided the scenery, Emerald ranch still looked gorgeous as it was the first time he found himself there. Jack took a nap on the grass.

Dutch couldn’t control him here. Games couldn’t be played, couldn’t be some pawn between old ghosts. It was that simplicity Arthur had shown him. That he now wanted.

And he wished Arthur was here, on selfish greed alone. He found himself fumbling to talk to Abigail about it, and she wasn’t as mad as he thought she’d be. Called him dumb a couple times, voiced her concern. Also supported him. Every word she spoke was right. He's really taken her for granted, hadn't he.

He wanted to feel okay, wanted to think it’d all work out. But John didn’t know what Dutch would be willing to do to make sure John didn’t get in his way. He already left him for dead once. He would do it again. This whole focus on Bronte was just some excuse to create more chaos. Was it so surprising? His greed caught up as an excuse to kill and control. A war starting with whom? 

The city? 

John had a feeling the city wasn’t Bronte. 

He had a feeling the city was Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews, and their connection of friends.  


They would have to return to pissed off Dutch at some point. He'd have to pretend he wouldn't be visiting Arthur behind his back, which he knew he would. He would start going out more with Abigail and Jack. He had to figure out what freedom meant to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ends with wholesome family, idk if i should add an abigail/john tag but its really platonic. anyway drama in this boys, well get back to our regularly scheduled morston in the next chapter, johns just lost as always. they gang finds out saint denis is just a huge pissing contest


	8. Gouache

Dutch’s leash on him got tight.

He managed to see Arthur once before everything seemed to get worse and it was only to yell at him. Practically barged into his apartment and pulled a gun on him. Arthur didn’t give him many answers but he did end up somehow wrangling him. A drink, a cigarette, some nothing promises. 

Made him wonder… Made him wonder what he was falling into. This trust business… Leaving all he knew, crazy or not, for someone talking about things that felt over his head. 

_ “You can be loyal, John. Just don’t do it so blindly. _ ” Arthur had said to him, which contradicted his previous  _ trust us first  _ business. Guess like some convoluted test. It didn’t make him feel great. Hell, none of this has. Made him feel stupid. He was.

Otherwise, any attempt to go see the man was hindered by someone’s body at the door. Job after job. Things he could have just waved off-  _ You’ve got Bill, I’ll be out-  _ No longer worked. It was Dutch’s say so, usually carried out by someone else's words.

If Mac Callander went on a lazy poker game, John played a lazy poker game. If Javier went and swiped some small paintings from a rich person's house, he went with him. If bill went out  _ drinking  _ John had to go along. And when there was any down time, he was put on door duty. Staring up at the ceiling. Forced to think about everything and nothing.

He was being baby sat. 

The only times he was able to go out on his own were to take Abigail on their small trips with Jack. Even those were hard to convince Dutch to let him go on. The man had a harder time saying no to ladies apparently.

And with John now forced to stick by Dutch’s side, he realized how bad this whole Bronte thing was going. He hadn’t known how frequently Dutch was pulling these meaningless heists. Poking a bear. It was quick, for every job they did, to fear that it would both get interrupted and attacked by Bronte’s men. Museums. Private art dealers. Auction houses. Anything and everything. Police set on them, traps laid out.

He didn’t have any time to talk to Hosea or Arthur to see if they were behind it, but John truly doubted it. They destroyed his trust, sure, but he couldn’t imagine them personally trying to hurt them. 

They  _ warned them.  _ Bad things were going to happen. They said that. They had been right.

 

John slammed the front door open and pushed Mac out of the way to get to the heart of the house. Bill followed him. Their entrance alone gathering the ones who cared. Ignored Mac’s annoyed yell.

“We got JUMPED, Dutch!” His voice was hoarse. More than usual. Yelling felt satisfying. “We been GETTING JUMPED EVERY DAMN TIME WE LEAVE!” He shouted again up at the stairs.

Dutch rested on the beam, looking down at him.

Bill spoke up, “Seems like they’re everywhere.” His voice was loud but a lot calmer than John was. Not mad in the same way.

“I know they’re everywhere.” Dutch spoke loudly down. He then turned to start slowly walking down the stairs. “Why else do you think we’ve been on the offense? They are  _ scared.”  _ He had the audacity to laugh.

John shook his head. Ignored the others that gathered. His hands clenched at his side. Knew his face was red. 

“What has happened to you!? We.. We just steal ugly art and sell it to stupid people! Not some- Some petty  _ street gang.  _ You had plans- You had plans to make enemies with the whole city!?” 

That got him pissed. “I am sorry, John. That I am not running this organization the  _ way  _ you are interested in. Our life right now, is just on the path of where we need it to be. There is a  _ journey here.  _ Can’t you just have a little faith- A little damn FAITH that I know what the hell I’m doing? Because by all means,  _ by all  _ means, take over if you think you’ll do so much better. To take care of all the people here. I have HOUSED YOU, I have NURTURED YOU, every, single, PERSON HERE. And it seems to me that you’re the only one complaining!” 

John stared up at him. Not wanting to look around him. See the eyes of his peers. He lost this battle. He lost hard.

He wanted to leave. To run off. He was stricken silent.   


"Well," He threw his hands in the air. "Alright then! Sorry I said nothin'." 

“That is what I  _ fucking  _ thought.” Really had to rub the salt in the wound.

He rushed up to his room, passed Dutch, passed his friends. Locked the door behind him. Stuck in his own chaos and stumbled to his bed. No idea what to do. No idea how to fix this. 

He wanted so badly to run to Arthur, ignore his fragile masculinity, plea to him to fix this for him instead. He must be the only one who knew how, him and Hosea. He was alone again. Caged in here like an animal. A young maiden stripped from her rights to see her lover. Dreaming of eloping into the wilderness.

It took awhile for John to calm down. To have his hands finally stop shaking. His pride to let him out of his room and into the public area to find Abigail. She already knew what he wanted. She nodded and went to go grab Jack, the three of them leaving with a glare from Mac.

Finally out, the open air eased him nearly immediately. The sunshine settling on his skin warmed him. Breathing in the scent of plants and fresh grass was soothing. The view of mountains in the distance. Farmers plugging away at their fields interested him. All just a blanket of distraction at the anxiety and fear that shook inside. The outside, however, didn't judge him. Or do any of that messy business, only wild. Nonsensical in a way, working on a different layer of logic. Logic John could understand. He ignored this all for a long time, but life really never waits.

Abigail was strangely quiet. John didn’t mind, he was too. Thinking. Jack sat between them, looking up at the birds. The fun animals they passed.

They rode through Rhodes to some valleys up ahead that he liked. Right above the bayou. 

“When are you gonna be done with this, John?” Her tone was tired, mostly bitter. 

Here we go.

“Huh?” 

“Oh, don’t act stupid. This whole thing. Takin’ us out to all these pretty places!” 

“Why are you yellin’?” He tried to laugh this off, his nose scrunched in confusion. “Thought you’d like these places. You know, a break from that city life.” And Dutch.

She had her head turned, “I  _ do  _ like these places. Seems like you’re just finding ways of teasing me. We go out, taking Jack, see these views, then you’re right back where you are. As always. Nothin’ is changing, John. Your way of runnin' without actually goin' anywhere.” 

“ _ Plenty  _ is changing.” Did she really have to scratch at his wound right now. “I’m just-“ 

“Trying to leave!? If you are really trying, we’d be out right now, wouldn’t we? How many times before this did I tell you? And do not say it’s about money because we had a whole pleth-ora way before these times of useless shenanigans you’re all on about.”

She was right, he was going to say money. 

“God  _ damn,  _ Abigail. Is there anything I do enough to make you happy? Is there?” He was hardly watching the road, the horses doing their job of keeping on the path. "I'm doin' what I can right now!"

“You are ridiculous. Keepin’ up this farce, under Dutch before God. Whatever, John! Just take us back now. So you can keep up your big fairy tale John Marston, just like all the others.” 

“Does it look like I have a  _ choice _ , Abigail!? You’re callin’ me ridiculous… Unbelievable.” He snapped the reigns with a shake of his head. 

“Oh you got choices. You just muck em all up before you can even make them. You had leads and where did that get you? We’re still here, even if we is, somewhere else! Feels like we’ll always will be!” 

“Jesus Christ, woman. Would you SHUT UP for a second!?” He huffed, she quieted. Jack grabbed for his mother and she gave him the worst glare of his life. Killed a poor cat right in front of them or something.

It didn’t last long.

She opened her mouth to speak again and John rolled his eyes.

 

They argued the entire way home.

 

It was incredibly frustrating. So damn frustrating that Abigail was right. He hasn’t gone  _ anywhere.  _ Arthur and Hosea seemed unattainable- And don’t get him started on that house by the lake, that idiotic dream. He felt anger and distrust in those two allies but he held more animosity towards Dutch right now. More fear.

He couldn’t quite figure out what they planned yet. If they had been communicating with Dutch, he hasn’t been told such. Dutch could be holding back information from him. Probably was. His actions got him seriously demoted. And while he never really  _ cared  _ that he was Dutch’s favorite, growing out of that childish need for attention, it was real awful not being involved in everything.

 

_ Don’t….. ever do that again. You really scared us there, son. There will, of course, be real consequences… but John, I’m just glad you returned to me. I knew you would. I knew you would. _

Is what he said to him when he ran off for that while when Jack was born. With just the two of them alone. Man to man. He had a feeling he’d never feel that warmth from him ever again.

The forgiveness.

 

* * *

 

“Mister  _ Micah Bell.”  _ Dutch practically purred that out. The man in question doing a bit of a bow, his curled smile cocky as always.

The docks were dormant except for a few workers on the side. The noises of a night in Saint Denis were clear, a muted chaos of train sounds and horses. Human babble distant in comparison than in the day, and the sounds of various southern bugs chirping. 

The moon held strong, the only thing lighting the area really. It was just himself, Mac, and Dutch. Micah has a couple of his own men. As well as a good couple men in suits that looked shady enough for John to make as their buyer.

They had finally found someone who’d purchase their hauls, and John was relieved it was this soon. As much as Dutch had been worrying him, he still knew how to haggle a city. 

“And you must be,” Dutch left as open ended as his arms. 

The fancy man tipped his hat and with his curled mustache he dutifully answered with the most British voice he’s heard this way. “Josiah Trelawny, at your service. I’m representing my employer in this exchange. As well as overseeing this operation. There’s been an unseemly amount of interruptions in that Bronte’s shipments I heard. A curious amount.” 

“Unsightly business, Mister Trelawny, unsightly indeed. These are my associates, John Marston, Mac Callander. Myself, Dutch Van Der Linde. I hope to make this interaction as  _ smooth _ as we can make it.” He had a charming tone to his voice as always.

Trelawny seemed enthused. “Yes, of course. Would your men please go and load up what you have while I speak with you about our payment? A proper transaction and such.” He had just as much of a charm as Dutch did. John immediately had the urge to befriend a man like this. Whether it was the way he said his words or how he would hold himself John couldn’t place. 

“Of course! We have it all right here. I am not about to ask questions, but your employer is, a generous man.” He laughed brightly and while John wanted to stay for the conversation he had to help load everything over. Damn it all.

Twelve pieces. That was a lot for how much each one were being sold for. A bit cheaper than selling it honest, but it was all profit. Hundreds to thousands for each one. This Trelawny had two men to help them, with this Micah Bell and his men being there to carry them all over. It was over staffed, but that meant there were enough witnesses for nothing to go wrong. 

The water underneath the docks sloshed underneath them. Rhythmic yet unpredictable. Trelawny and Dutch sounded loud in comparison to the night air, as did the shuffling and noises of artifacts being loaded into a cart. It was going okay. John didn’t trust that this wouldn’t end up in some sort of fiasco, because it normally did, but so far so good. They had enough people to take care of whatever would come their way anyhow. If anything, John knew his friends were capable.

The last of the boxes full of valuables were packed up in the back of the wagon. John stepped back a little to brush his hands off. 

He looked to Mac, nodded to him. Nodded to the buyers associates. They just had to wait on Dutch so they could get the hell out of there. 

 

A gunshot rang out in the air and there were three milliseconds of confusion. His weight being thrown back and he stumbled. Burning pain in his shoulder.

 

Someone got shot, and it was him. He got shot. 

He didn’t even cry out, not loudly, and he looked to Mac as he continued to lose his balance. 

 

“Du-“ He tried saying.

 

The boards stopped being under him as he stumbled and the cold water hitting his back then  _ enveloping him _ threw him into a shock. The sea swallowing him and he swallowed the sea. 

He tried swimming, it was mostly flailing. Kicking, yelling uselessly into the water, grabbing for anything. Water, why'd it have to be water.

He couldn’t see, it was too dark, his eyes burned, it was quick to realize  _ he had no idea which way was up or down.  _ Discombobulated and panicked. He didn’t know how to swim- He never learned, never thought he needed to. Why would a man need to damn swim if was never near water? He regretted his stubbornness now. 

The more he struggled the more it felt like was being dragged down by his clothes, or maybe his own weight? Water didn’t work like how the ground did. John would have wondered if this would be what it felt like if humans could fly like birds did, but right now he was busy thinking he was going to die.

Drowning burned, drowning ached. Black. Lonely. Cold. Exhausting. His shoulder felt worse. It felt like he was underwater for an eternity. Struggling uselessly, overusing his energy to flail and panic. 

There were things to think about, like Arthur, Abigail, Jack, Dutch, his friends. John failed to think about any of that, he was going to die and it was going to be thinking about how much pain he was in and how scared he was to die this way. Unfortunate circumstances and the damn situations John had always found himself in. This one he reckoned would be his last, and he had come quickly to the realization that he had more to live for than he thought he did.

He felt a rope. Scared the wits out of him first, too dark to truly see it, but instincts made him grab it anyway. It felt slimy with some sort of substance, he couldn’t tell you what, and as he clung to it he didn’t know if he was dragging himself lower or higher. Just kept pulling, his thoughts were starting to drift a bit, chest constructing over the little amount of air he had left in him- Maybe it was all water. He’s heard about men getting water all in their lungs. Is that what was happening? John started to panic some more as he pulled himself upward. 

Some childish part of him prayed that Dutch would grab the collar of his shirt and pluck him out of the water like a dog. That didn’t happen.

No one helped him. There was no savior. No knight here.

One more pull and it was the hardest one. Pulling against the water pressure but it was worth it to gasp in oxygen and immediately puke up water. With another gasp he was trying his best to keep his head above water but the way the sea shoved at him he was dragged under again just to struggle to hold himself closer to the rope. Coughing, retching, his breathing felt so loud in his ears with the bubbling of water and splashing. 

How the  _ hell  _ did he get lucky enough not to drown. He pulled the rope harder and looked where it was connected to. A boat tethered to the docks. The green sludge covered John’s fingers and made it hard to grip but he pressed on through his exhaustion and pain. Refusing to let himself die this way. 

Every orifice burned. His ears felt clogged then all at once they seemed to clear and everything was  _ loud. Overwhelmingly loud. _

Gunshots, yelling, neighing of horses. Heard distant whistling. His first instinct was to help them. John lifted himself further on the rope, trying his best to grab for the wooden planks. They were close. So close. His clothes weighed him down significantly, the water not wanting to let him go.

 

“Mac, you go left. Take the money and run to Javier. I’m going to go make sure our new friends get back safely.” It was Dutch’s voice. How he truly wanted to hear that sound.

_ “Dutch..” John could hardly get out. _

“What about John!?” He heard Mac yell out to him. It was nice to hear Mac give a shit.

“Don’t worry about him- I’ll get him. Just-Just get  _ going!” _

“Yes, boss!”

Good. Thank god. Dutch was going to get him. John felt so tired. He clutched the rope, holding onto it like it was his only friend. His shoulder hurt like none other. 

There were plenty of more gunshots. Sounds of people dying. 

He had to yell if Dutch were to hear him. And he did. With energy he didn’t even have. His throat burned with every yell, like choking on rocks. The sea water doing good to slice up his windpipes. No matter, it was quiet compared to any ruckus happening above him.

Waited a bit. Maybe he’d want to make sure the coast was clear, but John would pass out if Dutch took any longer.

So the man tried again, pulling himself up slowly, with effort he didn’t even know he had left in him. The rope was slippery, and his right arm was half useless, but with one more reach he held the sturdy dock board.

He cried out in pain and exasperation as he somehow found it in him to pull himself up. His torso and arms gripping onto the wood, gasping for air. Body trembling. His hair slicked flat to his head, it was in his eyes. He couldn’t see much even if it wasn’t.

“Dutch.” He said, hardly a croak. “Dutch, I’m..”  _ Here.  _ He tried once more. He heaved a little, coughing out more remnants of what sat inside him. 

He didn’t hear Dutch’s voice anymore. He didn’t hear much of anything actually. The atmosphere feeling off. Quiet. The sound of the ocean. John buried his face in his arms. Tired. So damn tired. He didn't know how long he struggled there, clinging to the planks.

Footsteps. Small jingles of Spurs with every step on the wooden planks. Dramatic, slow. John couldn’t will himself to look up, Hell he was half willing to let himself drop back into the water. It wasn’t until the footsteps got daringly close that John managed to lift his head. On the chance it could be Dutch Van Der Linde.

It wasn’t. 

John hardly managed to keep one eye open for him, the burning everywhere preventing him from doing a lot of things. Just forced to look at the man that stood above him. Dread filling him. A sickening betrayal that it wasn't the man he needed.

Grin crooked, jacket pushed back so he could confidently put his hands on his belt.

“What a shame. What a shame…” Micah Bell dragged those words out. “Doesn’t seem like your boss was too interested in coming back for you.” 

“Sh.. Shut up. Get, get outta,  _ here.”  _ His voice cracked, on top of that he was shivering beyond belief. 

Micah looked down at him. “Don’t think he even looked.” The man clicked his tongue. “So,” he forced, “I reckon, he wouldn’t miss you if I decided to give you a little nudge.” His foot dig itself into the wood, grinding against the material. Too close to his liking.

Fear startled through him and he clutched the boards harder. There wasn’t anything he could think to say. A lot of things, probably, but none that would ever get out.

“Don’t worry! Don’t worry… I wouldn’t do that to a new friend. I like you, John. You’ve got good attitude, strong, resourceful. Even a little weird- You know, in those paintings. Really flattering though. Wonder where you’d find a painter like that.” 

John continued to be silent. Micah continued.

“How about… I give your back a little scratch and you scratch mine. I’m going to save your life, out of the kindness of my own heart. Because I  _ believe  _ in the kindness and loyalty a friend has to another friend. Saint Denis ain’t full of friends, as you have seen.” 

“Uhuh,” He finally croaked. “Please, just, just help me.” 

Micah smiled and got on his knees to help anchor John, John wrapped his arms tight around him instantly. With a couple grunts and struggling the man successfully pulled John from the embrace of the water and fully onto the deck. Let him go and John slumped against the dock. Breathing heavy, eyes shut. Close to passing out. Coughing weakly. Growling in pain- His shoulder hurt like satan alone.

The last thing he heard was the footsteps and spurs walking off to the direction they came. John accepted his body’s persuasion of sleep. Shivering and all.  
Owing a debt to Micah Bell was the least of his worries.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t kill them but they can kill me. And don’t get me started on getting jumped by the little fellers. They’re so damn small.”

“Perhaps you’d just need to stop finding yourself in those situations.”

“Easy for you to say. When was the last time you been out anyway?” 

 

Fire crackled.

 

“I’m just saying, I always keep my money in the  _ other  _ pocket.” 

“Other pocket my ass. There ain’t no other pocket if they steal the whole thing. You can’t tell me you haven’t fallen for the bump.”

 

Warm voices.

 

“While I can’t tell you that, I will say it has been quite a while, my dear boy.”

“How long, old man.”

“I won’t humiliate you.”

“Haha, bullshit. You ain’t magic- now Josiah damn Trelawny is magic. You’re only an ex con man turned business. Any magic in those bones wasted away a long time ago.”

“That may be true. You’re right. Now I’m just good at selling art to rich simpletons.”

 

Warm laughter.

 

“A lot has happened, hasn’t it, Hosea. Since all that mess.”

 

John couldn’t open his eyes, found his body still shaking. Didn’t think he wanted to. Just listening to them was enough.

 

“It has. I’m worried.”

 

Fire crackled again. Heated John’s poor frame.

 

“Who would have thought he would still be dragging John around like this, huh. Think we could have…” 

“Prevented it? I’m not sure. He’s acting strange. Making rash decisions, it’s not like him. Not even back then. It’s what made us get along so well. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen him in so long. Forgot what that man is capable of.” 

Arthur’s laugh was hearty.

“Ain’t that the truth. But you know it’s bad when it’s got that boy on the run. Remember- Haha, remember when we found him. Could hardly follow directions. ‘Less it was from good ol’ Dutch himself.” 

“Hm. If I recall, it was  _ your  _ instructions he wouldn’t follow.” 

“ _ No.  _ No, I think I remember it right. Your mind might just be gettin’ rusty in your old age.” 

“Ah, I bet that’s it.” 

 

There was a short amount of silence, or maybe John was falling asleep again. Through the pain and cold in his bones, he couldn’t tell.

Warm fingers passed through his hair, John made a soft sound- came out as a rugged grunt. The same hand lightly slapped his cheek. 

_ That  _ made him panic a little, startling him and he didn’t know where he was. Eyes burned when he forced them open, body forcing an ugly growl from him as he tried to sit up. 

Arthur and Hosea sat beside him. 

Arthur clicked his tongue and made him lay back down. “It’s alright, boy. You’re okay.” And the way he said it calmed him nearly immediately. “You’re gonna be all right.” 

At soothing as the words were, how nice it was to feel Arthur’s warm, strong hands on him, he was still confused as all hell. 

“Where, m, I?” His eyes shut again. Felt too heavy to open them again. 

“Safe. I brought you to my home. I’ve got a fire going, Arthur and I took care of that bullet. You got lucky.” Hosea spoke. His voice was somehow comforting too.

He wanted to sleep again. He grunted softly. Especially with those fingers passing through his sea sticky hair- Before they pawed annoying at his face.

“Wake up, John. Wake up.” 

He groaned out. Managed to peek an eye open.

“What happened to you?” 

John didn’t know how to answer, because a fucking  _ lot.  _ He didn’t even know how he was alive. He felt himself shake a little bit more. Try to make out some words but they couldn’t leave him. 

Arthur clicked his tongue again and comforted him some more. “Calm down. Calm down. Yer alright. Gonna be all okay.” That got John to weakly nod.

“Maybe we should let him sleep a little while longer.” Hosea said gently. “Get him to dry some more and drink some water before he goes out.” 

Arthur grunted. “Okay. C’mere, John.” He heard shuffling then felt a warm arm slide over his shoulders to force him to sit up just a little. John let his head tilt heavy, a pained groan forced its way out of his chest. God, his shoulder hurt, his heavy arm moved to gently hold it. 

A cold rim of a cup was pressed to his lips and John did his very best to accept it. Couldn’t  _ move  _ himself the way he wanted himself to. Which was okay, Arthur helped him. As the cup was tilted only about 40% of the life saving liquid made it in, and only 30% made it down his throat. The other 70% poured down his lips and onto his shirt. John grimaced the entire time. His throat felt raw as all hell. Arthur was gentle with him.

“I’ll stay with him. You go on.” He heard Arthur say as he was laid down again. Felt his hand still on him for a second more to left all at once.

 

John couldn't feel himself keeping awake much longer. Being dragged down into unconsciousness. Safety comforted him more than anything else, but his mind buzzed in unanswered questions, doubts, betrayal. Micah Bell. Dutch Van Der Linde. Arthur Morgan. Hosea Matthews. He didn't ever think his drowning would become literal, and maybe it was a little more pleasant in comparison to the constant struggle inside his head. It was darker, it was colder, but it was quieter. John would wake up beside Arthur, John would wake up alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i get an F for my boy john


	9. Cold Wax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fathers Day to Arthur Morgan and Hosea Matthews only

The pain woke him up, a sharp ache in his shoulder biting at his muscles. Boy, he still felt awful. He blinked his eyes open slowly and sat himself up. He didn’t know where he was. It wasn’t Arthur’s apartment. Somewhere a little bit nicer. Well taken care of, not fancy, but welcoming in its decor. He sat in a bed that had a green wool blanket, a down pillow. Art in wood frames scattered on the cream walls. Everything coated in an orange from the evening light. The sky tired from the day he missed out on. 

A rather large item was right beside the nightstand, sitting slouched in a chair. Arthur Morgan. Asleep, half falling out. It was clear he hadn’t been watching John sleep too intently, body pointed mostly away with an open book in his hands. John couldn’t make out what the title was. 

It was kinda nice knowing he was being kept company. 

Frustrated him. 

Made his chest feel weird as emotions cooked inside. John excused it as pain and his body forced a coarse cough from his lungs. Couldn’t stop either, painful as all hell as he coughed three more times. The pain in his shoulder spiking as it wracked his body. 

Startled Arthur awake all at once and forced him to drop his book and straighten. Kinda funny in a way but John didn’t laugh. 

“Ah, Hell.” He bent down and fetched his book. “Made me lose my place.” The man flipped through the pages to try and find it again.

“How- Ahem.” One more short cough. “How long I been out?” 

“Surprisingly, not too long. Couple days at most.” He scratched at his beard. “You’ve been in and out of fevers, but it doesn’t look like your shoulders infected. Otherwise. Would’ve had to amputate.” The way he said it was dramatic and full of teeth. A threat? A threat.

John squeezed his shoulder a bit. It was his shooting arm. “Glad it didn’t come to that.” He paused then looked around a bit. “Where..” 

“Hosea’s. He had a fireplace and we needed to heat you up quick.”

“Ah.” 

Silence. John dropped his head and his hand to look at it. Clenched his fist, unclenched it. The events of what happened falling over him. 

He should have been angry, but it kind of just struck him in disbelief. Maybe, he reasoned, Dutch just couldn’t find him. 

What would he have done? Dove after him? There was nothing he could do , right? Nothing. 

Micah said he didn’t even look, which John quickly disputed with  _ that’s Micah’s words. Easily a lie.  _

Except deep down John believed it. 

It wasn’t the first time he left him like that.

 

“How’d you find me?” 

“Charles found you. Once the law roaches cleared out he dragged your poor, sorry ass over to us. You’ve got him to thank.” 

“Should’ve left me there.” John said, supposed to be a joke. Didn’t sound like one.

“Well, he didn’t.” 

 

Silence again.

 

“You hungry?” 

“Am I ever.” John exhaled and Arthur immediately stood up to leave.

It was kind of ironic, in a way. Two people, acquaintances at best, saved him rather than the man who raised him. Taught him how to read. Kept him fed, kept him safe. Housed. Off the streets. It hurt, maybe not as much as his bullet wound, but it did hurt. John itched at his scars a little. His body trembled without knowing why.

Arthur was quick to come back with some sort of soup. It really made John realize  _ how damn hungry  _ he was. He took the bowl and immediately started to eat, not caring for manners. Just that it needed to get into his body and into his stomach. It was hot and he could feel each slurp and bite warm down his throat. Taste wasn't that bad neither. Went down easy.

“Jesus, John. Ain’t you supposed to be civilized.” The man said as he sat back down in the chair.

John just grumbled and wiped the soup off his mouth with the back of his hand to keep eating. Arthur laughed at him softly. John didn’t care.

He let John eat the rest in silence. Let him drink the water on the nightstand in silence too. Took the bowl when he was finished. Hopefully that would end his shaking. John rubbed at his eyes and sighed. 

Looked to Arthur, who had picked up his book again. His presence, even as minimal as just existing in the same space as John Marston, comforted him in ways he couldn’t express. He should still be angry at him. He really should be. 

It made him think about how quickly he had managed to calm him down when John was very set on kicking his ass. How he pulled out a cigarette, offered it to him. Lit it for him. Grabbed some rum and a glass. Forced him to talk like an adult. Which was minimal, was rough, and mostly kind of sad.

He also thought about Abigail’s words to him. 

John held his face in his hand, pulling at the fabric of the blanket with his injured. 

Arthur’s chair creaked as he got comfortable. Heard the page turn. The sound of his fingers gliding against paper. John let go of the blanket and his face. 

“I don’t know where to go.” He finally broke the silence. 

“That so?” Arthur didn’t look up from his book.

“Yeah, all this. It’s all a mess. I’ve been an idiot. I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’. With you, with- God. Arthur, I’ve got a wife and a son. I never once told you that, did I? I do. I got a whole family.” The weight he didn’t know lifted from his chest, immediately weighed back down with each word spilling from his mouth.

Arthur stayed silent, the book slammed closed.

“And I- I am real worried,”  _ scared, _ “That I’ll screw it all up. I’ve been doin’ a good job of doin’ that already, with myself, with Dutch, with you. Things have been gettin’ real bad for a long time now. Don’t know when.” He rubbed at his forehead took a breath. “Maybe since forever and I was too stubborn to see it.”

Arthur didn’t say a thing but his attention was on John.

“We just, we got over our head. Cocky, maybe? I told you we had a mansion. It was arguably so, it wasn’t pretty like those ones you’ve seen. We saved up for a chandelier- Lost most of the money before we even could, you know. That, uh, Leviticus Cornwall feller. He was some rich man, held a lot of stocks n things. Had a lot of business in art. Films too. It’s been gettin’ big there” John’s words were reasonably paced, but messy. 

“Uhuh.” Arthur said. 

John continued. “We got tangled in stuff. Stole a lot of money from this man. It was a bad idea from the start. We were so close.. so close to something. Abigail had been pushing me to settle down for months. I waved her off. I mean, we knew famous people at the time. Drank with those big celebrity fellers and stole from them too. Hard to stop a life like that. You ever heard of a lady called Maude Adams?” 

“No.”

“She was in that one called  _ The Little Minister _ .” John pressed.

“Oh, that one! Of course. I know that one.” Arthur did not seem like he knew that one. “A real classic. Everyone and their damn mother has seen that particular….. media.” 

“Forget it.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes and sat forward in his chair. “So, you knew people. Dutch got messin’ with the wrong ones. You were all big an mighty. Got dumb and ruined it nice and good. Then found yourself here where you’re gonna continue to ruin it nice and good.” 

John shrugged, tried to speak, stopped himself, then tried again. “Yeah, it seems like that is the correct synopsis for the situation at hand, yes.” 

“Alright.” 

“You don’t seem to be surprised.” 

The man grunted. “I’m not. Though, I am completely shocked by you knowing this Maude Adams lady. I bet that was a real privilege in that fancy California.” 

John frowned at him.

“Listen, John. I appreciate this- This  _ honesty,  _ or whatever that was. But it still ain’t solvin’ a thing. You’re in over your head, I understand- Oh, do I understand. You just.. need to find out what this all means to  _ you.  _ What is important to you, John. Who the hell do you want to be, hell, who are you right now? You can’t be playin’ both sides and wonder why you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

“Well, what the hell was the ‘Trust us first’ business?”

There was a pause, then a crack of his smile. “Alright, I kinda just bullshitted that one.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!?”

Arthur laughed, “I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. That whole thing was a bit of a personal fiasco. And you gotta admit, it was kinda funny.” 

“You’re some comedian. Do you know what that did to me? Do you care?”

“What did it do to you, John? Make you tell Dutch who you’re with? What you’ve been off doin’? Would you have told him otherwise?” 

“I did not plan on it, no. Not to that detail! And it wasn’t your right to slip it under me!” 

Arthur waved him off. “Yeah. Well he had to find out who we are somehow. And here you sit, right now, safe in a bed with me right next to you. With Dutch nowhere in sight.” His words were said deliberately and dark. Weighted. 

It was ridiculous. This conversation made him feel better and also ten times worse. 

“You’re a bastard. I’m tired of these games.” 

“Then leave.” 

The words startled him and he narrowed his eyes. 

“You are your  _ own  _ damn man, is what I am trying to say here. Stop being a fucking child and figure this out.” 

“Then help me to figure this out!”

There was some silence. 

“Please.” John added. “You’re sayin’ so many words about what I’m doin’ wrong.” 

Arthur let him talk. 

“I need.. I need  _ help.  _ Because I got no body. This pickin' sides business... Arthur Morgan, your advice is… it don’t make sense to me. Long winded. Mean. Can’t you just tell a man you’ll help him? Can’t you just say that to me? ‘Cause I just got myself. And it’s been pretty damn clear I’ve been choosing you for the past months.” He was being too honest. 

The painter sighed. The painter seemed to think. 

“Okay. Okay, I’ll stick by what I said, but...  _ Fine,  _ I’ll help you, John. I’ll hold your hand like a little lady. Because God almighty, you seem to need it.”  


"Thank you." He sighed. "Jesus." 

The promise made his chest hurt a little bit more, a sense of relief. Arthur stood up from his chair to leave, John immediately reached to pull him over more with his good arm. Arthur slowly obliged to make two steps closer. There was a long moment of them looking at each other before John pulled Arthur in for a small kiss. Hesitant. Arthur kissed him back and then kissed him again. John’s hand pushing up to hold Arthur’s neck, force him closer. The man felt so warm.

Their kisses turned longer, slowly more passionate. Minor tongue, mostly mouth. God even his tongue felt hot. Radiating body heat that John felt himself craving.

Arthur broke the kiss to mumble to him. “You're cold.” 

“I feel half dead.” John kissed him again.

“You should get some more sleep.” 

“I’ve had plenty.” Another kiss. All of those emotions that bubbled inside him turned into greed. “Get on the bed, Arthur Morgan.” 

Arthur scrunched his nose. “You’re crazy. I ain’t doin’ that.” 

John kissed him again, a little more expressive, rolling his tongue into Arthur’s. Forcing his need for him into his actions. His good hand dropping some to push at Arthur’s clothes, his less able hand reaching carefully at Arthur’s belt. 

Arthur tried to pull away some to grumble. “Think you’re delirious.”

John just grunted and grabbed Arthur’s collar to pull him a little closer, killing Arthur’s balance and forced him to quickly catch himself. His mouth conveniently able to kiss and suck gently at the man’s neck. Forcing a soft hum out of the man above him.

“S’all I gotta do is tell you I’ll help you and you’ll turn into this mess?” 

John huffed against his skin. “It’s been a long couple weeks.”

“I’m sure it has.” And with that Arthur caved, albeit very carefully. Like John was some porcelain doll. He pulled himself up and onto the bed, fitting over John, caging him in with his body just to kiss him.

Over and over again. John was in pain and the kissing and passion did so well in distracting him. Maybe Arthur was right, he was feverish. He just couldn’t get over the feeling of Arthur’s fingers passing through his sea sticky hair. Along his scalp in such a gentle way yet was overwhelmingly masculine and strong. He sighed into the kisses, licking against Arthur’s tongue. Felt the heat of his mouth. He was still shaking.

Arthur broke the kiss. 

“You alright?”

John nodded. 

They kissed again. 

It was a bit awkward to get comfortable, to remove the blanket, to pull it over. To rid Arthur of some of his clothes (why did this man always have so much clothing during the day?). John had barely any, stripped of his when he was soaking wet. Arthur’s hand undoing buttons and sliding over John’s bare skin. Very careful of his bandage. There was more adjusting, there was less clothing. Shifting in position and hands, Arthur’s finding itself to slowly paw at John’s crotch, rub at the outline of his cock under the thin fabric. All the while keeping up a kiss. It was in a teasing nature, not pulling down any more of the clothing to keep his hand from any bare skin. John was yet to mind, taking in and any form of affection. His head tilting when Arthur kissed at his neck. 

“Mm, you taste like salt.” 

“I nearly drowned.” 

“You still can’t swim?” He rubbed the heel of his hand right up against his shaft. 

John had to think harder to respond, “Ain’t a reason to.” 

Arthur chuckled and it sounded like honey up against his neck.

“I’d say keeping yourself from drowning is a reason to. How the hell did you get outta that.” Arthur parted John’s legs a little more, his body pressed against him. 

“I don’t know. Life ain’t done with me yet I guess.” He winced a little as he used his bad arm to hold onto Arthur a bit more. 

“God himself pull you out of the water?” It was a joke, he could feel the smile against his skin.

“Somethin’ like that. Wasn’t Dutch. Now sit up a little, would you.” 

Arthur obeyed and as they removed themselves the man had a strange look on his face. Meant that John had to explain. He didn’t want to. Didn’t want to think about it.

“Who then.” Arthur asked as he predicted. 

With their shift in position, John used it to rid him of the more complicated articles. Arthur’s belt? On the damn ground. His right arm mostly just held Arthur’s side, any movement with it would strike up pain. His good one went to Arthur’s groin. Leaned fully against the man. Like he was burying himself into him.

“Alright then. Must’ve been a mermaid.” He breathed. Got the hint that he wouldn’t get an answer.. 

After all this they were finally completely naked and it stressed John out a little. Being it Hosea’s home and all. He trusted Arthur wouldn’t be humoring him if Hosea  _ could _ catch them, but then again, he found he didn’t know Arthur that well sometimes.

It was mostly making out and touching than it was sex, jerking themselves off as they were occupied thinking of all types of things they didn’t need to deal with while they were in each others arms. Kissing, sharing warmth. They probably didn’t need to be completely naked for this but it felt better that way. 

Especially when he was laid on his back, looking up at Arthur. John’s body loose and pliant, even a bit dramatic for him. Keening a bit as he felt Arthur’s free hand smooth over his thigh, and John changed the pace on how he stroked himself. His eyes stayed glued on the man above him and Arthur’s stayed on John’s. His skin glowing in the sunset, dramatic shadows pooling over the both of them. He got to take his time soaking in how gorgeous Arthur was. His concentrated face, his form- Fit and broad. John switched hands with minor difficulty, painful shifts, just so he could reach up and drag his fingers against his chest. A bit sticky with sweat, yet firm and solid. He curled his fingers and squeezed his own cock a bit, giving a short groan. Arthur seemed to purr back at him, a low sound that was practically music. 

Arthur huffed quick breaths and John got to see exactly what he looked like when he’s about to cum, his expression tight and brow furrowed. Then all at once he felt him coat his stomach with the disgusting substance. He gasped softly, soaking in how that made him feel- Emotionally and physically. Knowing that Arthur came to  _ his body,  _ and covered him in proof of it. Made him feel certain ways he didn’t think he wanted to unravel. No matter the answer, it made him switch hands again so he could stroke himself faster, the pain of his body making it difficult for him to reach that certain level of ecstasy. Arthur panting above him, beautiful, petting his body, stayed patient. John felt so close and so far away. Dragged frustrated huffs and groans from him. As Arthur watched him- Which was a very odd experience- The man mumbled praises. Encouragement that helped immensely. His fingertips dragging over his thighs.

_ Even a little weird- You know, in those paintings. Really flattering though. Wonder where you’d find a painter like that. _

Micah’s comment popped in his mind suddenly. And without no ones permission John found himself cumming right after the thought with a winded moan. Jerked himself tight and fast through it, slowed down, then stopped. He had a tight grimace on his face as he panted hard. His cum joined Arthur's over his stomach, exacerbating the terrible mess. His body buzzed with that satisfying feeling, mind beautifully distracted for 6 whole seconds.

As much as this was all wonderful, and as seriously gorgeous he found Arthur Morgan, he felt a level of disgust in himself that he came with Micah Bell on his mind. Why did that have to happen. What the hell was wrong with him. He let out a low groan that was less about his lust and more about his stupid, idiot brain. 

Arthur had leaned down and kissed below his ear, both hands giving John gentle attention.

“You alright?” He asked for the second time.

John wasn’t, but he nodded. Still breathless, still stunned by his after high. The pain seemed dulled just a tiny bit, at least.

John wanted a redo, he got his climax stolen from him with no way to express that without telling Arthur. God, help him.

In the meantime, Arthur hadn’t left him. Still was there, between his legs, solid and unforgiving to love on him. Petting his side. A hand at his hair with his elbow to hold his entire weight. Small kisses left at his neck. He felt him mumble something against John’s skin but he had no idea what. It felt more intimate than any sex he’s had before. All of this. 

It convinced him that Arthur must care more than he let on, even if it was just a little. Reminded John just how  _ safe  _ he felt in his arms. All of his problems could wait if he was just under Arthur like this. Even the pain in his shoulder, even the ache of his poor body, it could all wait if Arthur continued to treat him like something important. 

The man granted him more time. Maybe it was an apology, maybe it wasn’t. Cleaned John up with a spare hand towel and dragged the blankets over them. John didn’t move at all, not wanting to, and Arthur didn’t make him. Laid half on him instead with his hand on his chest, his face against John’s neck. John’s good arm was able to embrace him and lay his hand in the man’s dark honey hair. Card each finger through it. Arthur’s position was feminine in a way, disrupted by the fact that he’s a 190 pound man. He liked it.

He was surrounded by warmth. Felt Arthur’s breath against his neck. The rise and fall of Arthur’s torso that accompanied it, a fully functioning body up against John’s. Noticed he smelled like wood smoke more than usual. Must have been out recently. And with every single detail of his senses John had no trouble falling asleep.

 

When he woke up it was dark except for a lamp on the other side of the room. Arthur was gone, including any evidence of him, and John found himself half dressed. The moon held high. John sighed.

* * *

 

 

It took two days of Hosea and Arthur’s hospitality for his arm to finally heal enough for him to use it with most mobility. Still hurt if he held it in certain ways, lifted something too heavy, but he could shoot. That’s really all he cared about.

The downfall of him not being dead was that he still had to deal with all the bullshit that has befallen him.

He knew he had to go home to check with Abigail, but doing that meant he’d have to go back to Dutch. The longer he waited to do this the more of a disaster it’d become. 

In the meantime, Hosea had been a great host. John found out more things about him, especially now that he knew exactly who he used to be. How he was generally quiet. How he loved to hunt. In his own personal space he didn’t speak much, even Arthur outspeaking him most of the time. Business Hosea and home Hosea seemed like two different men. And it felt like their dynamic, Hosea and Arthur, switched when they had no front to put on. Both version of him were equally nice, but John decided he liked home Hosea more.

He liked to read, and he liked to sit by the fire. John figured it’d be in some dramatic arm chair like in the boring plays he’s seen, but it was just a wooden chair. Nothing fancy as he let the flames illuminate his pages and dance light around the room. John was never a reader so he couldn't relate on any joy that would bring to a person. 

John just liked to stare at open flames sometimes. Right now, sitting himself a couple feet away from the fireplace and just mesmerized by the orange flickers. A childish past time compared to how he’s supposed to be. Upright, in a chair, distracted by hobbies or something. Or boring discussion. John didn’t like to talk and being around Hosea made him feel like he didn’t have to, or even have to endure being talked at to, like Dutch. 

 

“You know,” Hosea said aloud suddenly, the first time in probably the last hour. He flipped a page. “I believe Arthur told me he’s going on a small trip tomorrow morning.” 

John didn’t reply right away until he figured out Hosea wasn’t going to say more unless he pressed. “Yeah?”

“If you think you’re well enough, I think you should go.” 

He took his time to pretend to mull over the question. “Alright. Maybe. We’ll see, I guess.” Of course he’d go.

He spoke up again. “Then I suggest going back to Dutch. I’m sure he’s worried about you.” 

He laughed gently. “I don’t know about that. But, I think I will.” 

“Sometimes it’s easier to be mad at someone than to deal with the complications of human emotions.”

John just shrugged, not knowing how to reply. Hosea didn’t expect one. They fell into that silence again. The rest of the night went similarly until John grabbed a bite to eat and wished Hosea a goodnight. 

The man got up early enough to have time for a bath at the saloon. Sea stricken clothes still very sea stricken, but at least he didn’t feel as grimy. He found Arthur before he left and they shared a coffee then hit the open road. 

To no ones’ surprise it was nice to be there with him. Guilt settled at his gut for staying one more day being a dead man, but he needed this. Or wanted this. He wasn’t sure. Hosea’s suggestion was said for a reason, right? 

 

Arthur took them North, almost reaching Valentine. The Heartlands. From where they set up their small camp John saw buffalo, even some deer type animals bouncing around too. The ridges and dips of canyons of different shades of grays and browns. A story being written there in hills and vegetation that didn't involve him. The sun was soft on the land. Pillowy clouds cluttered the sky. John was stuck looking at all of it. 

When he looked over at Arthur the man was setting up an easel. The familiarity of the situation created that ache again and John figured it was probably an emotion called “longing.” A fancy word for envy, or so he’s come to excuse. He went over and helped Arthur set up the last of his things and then plopped right next to the easel and continued to stare out at the wilderness. 

Felt the heat of the sun warm sit on his shoulders and on his head. He pushed his hand through his clean hair and remembered something.

He fucking lost his hat in the water. Damn it all. 

Noticed something else too. The normal sound of a paintbrush sliding against canvas hadn’t started yet. He usually got started right away, or at least started mixing colors. John looked over and saw Arthur staring at the blank canvas. His hand on his chin in thought.

John broke the silence. “You gonna paint today?” 

Arthur glanced over at him, his expression still somewhere else. “I don’t know yet. You ever tried it, Mister Van Winkle?” A name he hasn’t heard Arthur call him in awhile. “Must have since your grubby little hands touch ‘em all the time, right.” 

John shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I’ve partaken in a draw or two, but I’m usually better killin' folks for them.”

Arthur stood up from his little stool he brought with him. “Well come sit down then.” 

“You can’t be serious.” He laughed, incredulous.

“Oh, I’m plenty serious.” 

John didn’t move. 

“Get your ass in the chair, John.” 

That finally got him up to his feet and brushed himself off. “Alright. Okay.” He sat himself down and fixed his spot. It was weird. The way Arthur had it set up made you perfectly able to see the scenery if you needed to but with full ability to the canvas. No matter, just sitting in the stool was daunting. He looked up to Arthur immediately for help. 

A paint brush was offered, John took it. So was a palette. He took that too. Kind of awkwardly. There was this hole in it that he knew he was supposed to use. Saw artists do it all the time. The stress of doing something for the first time immediately made him forget how to work his fingers.

“Jesus.” Arthur took his hand and the palette and fit his thumb in the correct place. Blue, red, and yellow paint were the most prominent paint on there, but there were a lot of subset colors. Mostly muted. Greens. Browns. Oranges. All probably special in a way to create those pretty paintings Arthur has the magic of doing. John had no idea where to start.

“Alright so,” Arthur pointed at the wilderness. “There ain’t a lot of detail out here. Hardly any trees. We got sky, we got those canyons, ground, and animals. That’s it.” 

“Uhuh.” 

“They’re all shapes. They’re all colors. Take the paint brush, think about the colors you see and place it on the shapes.” 

“Okay. Seems easy. Nothing else to it than that?” 

“Nothin’ else.” John didn’t believe him.

John stared at the palette. The colors. He looked up to the scenery again. Didn’t know where to start. He chose the sky because it was the most easy. You can’t screw up the sky. It was just blue. With some white blobs.

He took the paintbrush and dipped it in that pure blue and then recreated the motion he’s seen time and time again. A brushstroke. Thick with paint. Maybe too thick. Okay, he could fix this. He moved the brush back and forth, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he coated the top of the painting in bright blue. He looked back up at the sky. It was a completely different color. Found out quickly that you  _ can  _ screw up the sky. 

“Uhh.” 

“Looks great.” 

“It does?” 

“If the sky was full of water. Does that blue look like what God sits in?” Arthur was too kind.

John sighed and pointed at the paints, “Well, you didn’t give me that color blue!”

Arthur sighed. “That’s why you mix the paint. Look.” He pointed at the paints, “Take some of that blue and some of that white. See what that does for you.” 

“You’re not a very nice teacher.” He grunted in frustration and did what he was told. Carefully adding white to the blue. Like Arthur said, it did make it lighter. What a concept. John looked to the sky then looked to his paint. Looked to the sky then looked to the paint. Once he thought he got it close enough he globbed it onto the canvas and started again. Pushing the sky blue paint all over his ugly bright blue. It was messy and uncoordinated, but it was a lot better. 

“There you go. Now keep goin’.” Arthur ordered.

He did. He added clouds. They were circular and unrealistic, he didn’t like them at all. He tried again by just making sort of messy brush strokes and it looked a little better. Nothing like what really existed there. 

“This is hard.” He exhaled. “How do you do this all the time?” 

“While you’ve been doing this, how much have you been thinking about Dutch?” 

John blinked. “Uh. None, I guess."  


"How about California?" 

John got the point.

“Keep painting.” 

He was right. When he stared at the land, thinking about what colors they were, how he could make his hand copy those ridges with messy tans and browns, he didn’t think about Dutch. He didn’t think about money. Or-Or running. The drowning, literal or not. There  _ was  _ a soothing nature to it. A distraction to his chaos he’s only found in alcohol and sex.

The canyons came out very gross and bright orange. He added white but it only made it worse. 

“Add just a little bit of blue to it.” 

“Huh? There ain’t none of that in there.” 

“Your orange is too bright, add some blue.” 

He didn’t argue, but he trusted him. Dipped his paintbrush in the blue, Arthur grabbed his wrist gently and made him wipe off most of the blue off the paint brush, then guided him back to the paint.

It worked. It was definitely less bright. Definitely more land looking. He had no idea why that worked.

“Add some of this.” He directed, pointing at a light tan. 

He nodded and did so. And it started to look like the color of the ground. He put that all over the canvas. It looked kind of pretty. Color wise. Didn’t hurt your eyes looking at it. It was just two colors, but it was better than he would have done without Arthur’s help.

He remembered the advice. They’re just shapes. 

John stared at the land and tried to imagine them as such. They definitely were shapes of some kind. Wiggly. Intricate. Blocky. He used black to outline the canyons. He heard Arthur exhale. He was probably doing something wrong. Well, John thought it looked okay. He had no idea how to do it otherwise, and there was definitely black in those hills. 

He added the greenery too. And then got out of hand with the greenery. It looked weird, he knew it looked weird, but he didn’t know how to stop making it look weird. 

He sighed in frustration, “Hell, I ruined it.” 

“You didn’t ruin it.” Arthur chuckled. “There was nothin’ to ruin in the first place.”

John huffed and shrugged, tried to get up from the chair but Arthur’s hand on his shoulder kept him sitting. “Well, I’m awful. I ain’t gonna bother finishing it.” 

Arthur laughed. It was a warm sort of way. As amazing as it sounded it annoyed John. “I’ve got a secret for you, John.” 

“And what’s that.” 

He stepped over a little, his body pressed up against his back, face up against his neck as he mumbled it to him. “Artists never know what the hell they’re doin’. Any that say they do are outright liars.” He reaches over him to take his hand under his control. “An artist is just a person who knows how to fix their mistakes.” 

His overwhelming presence got him a little flustered but he was too interested in what he was about to do. He’s never been more focused on something so trivial.

“Lets keep goin’.” It was mumbled right against his neck as Arthur guided his hand back to the palette. Scooped up some paint and dragged it against the canvas. Layering over some of the green. Gentle, slow. Completely different on how John was doing it. Made his green explosion look more like a valley. Forced his awful painting to look semi okay again. John was convinced Arthur had magic hands. 

He let go, but didn’t let  _ go _ . His body still pressed up against him some to watch him paint. The man’s hands holding John’s waist. 

John ignored the distraction and found his confidence again, dipping into the black and painted the buffalo. It ended up looking like some sort of fat monster creature of an unknown origin and he felt Arthur breathe out a laugh against his neck. Whatever. John kept on and used dark brown to paint those deer-like animals. They also looked nothing like them because they kept  _ moving _ . He couldn’t get a good look. He mostly went off memory of what a deer looked like. He also added a sun with bright yellow. It was in the very corner of the canvas. The icing on top of his masterpiece. 

“What is that.” He pointed to the odd, mystery object.

“What’s it look like? It’s the sun.” 

Arthur paused for too long. “Alright.” 

John set down his paintbrush and nodded. Arthur pulled himself away with a pat of John’s shoulder. “Looks great.” 

“Does it?” 

“Yeah. Belongs right next to the Mona Lisa.”

He laughed and stood up to really look at it.

 

Uhm. Okay, looking at it from farther away it was. Uhh, you know. Something he could definitely improve on. 

 

“I think I’ll stick to shootin’.” 

“Ahh, it ain’t that bad.” Arthur gestured to it. “It’s just, you know. Those modern ones. Like that Pissarro feller.”

“Who?” 

“Some feller who paints bad but got rich.” He shrugged. “I’ll never understand that kinda art.” His description ended up being more of an insult than a defense, now didn’t it.

“Impressionalism?” John said incorrectly.

“Er,  _ sure.”  _

“Thought I saw you paintin’ some.” 

Arthur waved him off. “Yeah, and I hate it.” 

John laughed at that. “Well, now are you gonna paint this place too and make me feel awful about my absence of artistic ability?”

“N’aw.” He picked up John’s canvas. “I wanna paint some mountains.” 

“Who are these for?”

Arthur shrugged. He didn’t give any more of an answer. John didn’t ask further.

 

They went east and found a spot that included some train tracks and houses off in the distance. 

Arthur proceeded to make John feel awful about his absence of artistic liberty. Even with it half finished the parts he did get done with were stunningly gorgeous. Accurate. Even down to the movement of the birds. John got to sit in the grass and watch him. 

No longer painting, he rubbed at his injured shoulder. He thought about Dutch again. He didn’t want to deal with it. Thought about what would happen if he just continued to be dead. If Dutch would really miss him, if the man truly would have let him die like that without a shred of concern. He guessed he had things like responsibilities, a family. And perhaps a little bit of curiosity on how Dutch will react to the second time of John Marston refusing death. If the man played it off John would probably lose his absolute shit. 

 

Birds cawed over his head. Arthur set down his paintbrush.

 

Their outing had to end again. No matter how badly he wanted to see Arthur finish his painting.

* * *

 

 

“John- We thought you were dead.” Javier’s voice was shocked. Unbelieving the sight before him. 

 

John’s dirty clothes. John’s played up wrecked body with his hand over his wound. 

 

“I thought I was too.” He sounded exasperated, dramatic. It was the only way to play this off without admitting that his time after getting shot was better than returning to them. “How’s Abigail?”

“A wreck. Come with me, amigo.” Javier pressed his hand on John’s back, bringing him to the heart of the house. John meagerly went along.

“Ey! Everyone! John’s not dead!” 

It was like the first time he came back from Arthur’s. Everyone stopping what they were doing to come peek out. Except it was a lot less happy. A  _ lot  _ less. Mac didn’t smile. Bill didn’t exactly seem joyous neither. Molly’s attention momentarily piqued. 

Davey at least laughed out in surprise. “God didn’t want you, now did he, John!” Truer words never been spoken.

Grimshaw, in contrast, genuinely seemed worried to see him. She rushed over to him in her frantic fashion. 

“Mister Marston! Oh, you scared the hell outta all of us.” 

He heard the door from Abigail’s room slam open and John looked up at the top of the stairs. 

She froze, little Jack in her arms, and quickly rushed down them to see him. 

He tried smiling for her but her frown was distinct. Tears beading at the corners of her eyes and she hugged him. He grimaced.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. I..” He hugged her back and she pulled away the moment he did. 

“Don’t do that again. Ever again.” 

“I don’t plan on it, my lady.” He tried to huff out a laugh. She shook her head, not finding it funny. Jack was silent in her arms, rightfully confused, and he clung his arms over his mother's neck. 

John’s attention shifted to the man slowly stepping down the stairs.

King like, John has figured. Like he was always better than the ones below. He saw his hands fix the ring on each finger in a familiar fidget. He didn’t look relieved to see him. John stood up a bit straighter.

“John.” His voice croaked out. “My son. You lived.” He sounded almost…disappointed.

“I did.” John pulled Abigail a little closer to himself. 

“Good. Good, I was worried.” 

_ Were you? _

There was some silence. Dutch and John keeping eye contact. A gaze that hurt. 

“Micah Bell saved my life.” He said strongly.

“That was nice of him.” 

“It was.” John said.

 

“Mister Marston, let's get you out of those awful clothes.” Ms. Grimshaw grabbed John’s good arm and pushed him forward to the stairs to get him walking. She followed behind, ushering him up the stairs. He passed Dutch, their eyes meeting for only a moment, and it was chilling. He was shoved farther up the stairs. “Get goin’!” 

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’. You’re not being very kind to an injured man.” 

Grimshaw huffed, “Your feet aren’t injured, are they?” 

He rolled his eyes as she got him to his room. He expected her to slam it behind her and go off but she stopped. He turned around to her.

“How is it?” She started pulling at his jacket and he immediately started batting her hands away. 

“I’m fine. The fellers that saved me fixed me all up and good. It’ll be just another scar to add to the collection. Promise you that.” 

She liked that answer. “Well, okay. Just, be more careful out there, you hear me? There’s only one John Marston.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

She took a moment to look him up and down before finally waving him off to leave. Door shut gently behind herself. Left him alone to his room with the minimal furniture and dreary pale walls.

He walked to the window and opened the curtain a bit more. Didn’t help much to relieve him, seeing the cluttered humanity of Saint Denis below.

Hosea said that it was easier to be angry than to admit worry. John had a hard time believing it. The chilling way he stared into his eyes. It scared him a little, that maybe Hosea didn’t know how bad Dutch has gotten. That because of this, Hosea won’t know how to help him. Arthur neither. That he was really a lost cause and Dutch will end up getting him really killed before he can figure out how to escape. 

It was all true, that he wanted it all. John, he just. He wanted it how it used to be- Something he guessed he took for granted. Being an irresponsible man and not questioning any order he was given. Doing bad things, doing risky missions. Paintings? Who the fuck cared about the paintings, really. How were they any different from robbing men for their gold? Civilized crime.. Getting shot in the shoulder and nearly drowned didn’t feel very civilized. 

John sighed at this window sill and left to walk to his closet. Searched through every single drawer, every single crevice looking for anything worthy of selling. Anything of value. Pictures. Interesting trinkets. It was disheartening to not find much. 

He needed money. Maybe if he just kept helping Dutch with a couple more scores he could get enough to escape. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything at all. 

He at least felt a little more confident with Arthur telling him he’d help him. That Hosea was clearly behind him too. Didn’t mean they’d be successful in helping him- But it felt promising. Made him feel a little less alone. 

 

The man somehow peeled himself from where he sat on the floor. Somehow willed himself out of his nasty clothes and into fresher ones. Got himself out of his room and into the common area, trying not to express just how scared he felt. Surrounded by family, or what used to be, that seemed to detest his guts.

Even Javier, one of his closer friends, didn’t seem to have his back like he used to.

John plopped himself at the table where Davey and Mac sat. 

“Deal me.” He said firmly. Davey dealt out the cards and John participated. Ignoring Mac’s hard stare the entire time.

Davey ended up winning, and he’s pretty sure he cheated.


	10. Journal I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A collection of Arthur's journal entries!

That Bronte feller commissioned me for a ton of large paintings. All of them too big to fit in the damn doorway of the Palais Riche. Don’t know what that’s about, or even how he plans to get them in there, but he paid me handsome. Labeled my art as some Avido Stronzo feller’s, whoever that is. Hate that Italian man as much as he probably hates me, but he pays well and I get to paint what I want. I chose to paint a couple Italian looking buildings based on some pictures in that Bronte’s mansion. [Kinda looks like this: sketch included]

 

Didn’t think I’d have to write so soon but I found a rat in my house last night. Found him going through my things and got to give him quite a scare, but he was a wild man. Took some effort to take him out. Apparently those paintings weren’t for nothin’. Found one of them in his bag. Got Hosea to come and help me interrogate this kid. Course he didn’t tell us shit, but he’s gotta be apart of something big for Bronte to screw with him. Hosea says there’s been some theft in lower art galleries over the past couple weeks too. Might be related. Might not be. Dropped the wild man off in the slums with a bottle of whiskey. He looks at me funny. Just hope he takes my advice.

 

Mary-beth and I got dragged to one more of those fancy parties where I had to wear a suit. Lots a big names there. Didn’t see Jenny there, but I did see that rat again. Forgot to mention, the man’s name is Rip Van Winkle. He already messed it up and it’s Jo-Rip now. He was there to get more info on Bronte which is trouble. His boss is definitely trying to start some for whatever god damn reason. Some Californian hustlers thinkin’ they can just create some chaos and own the city. They don’t know the game they’re playing. Marybeth spilled the beans about the shipments and I hope it doesn’t end up tracing back to her.

 

Rip Van Winkle can’t stay out of my life I guess. It’s filling my journal up faster than I’d like. Apparently Hosea gave him his business card and wants me to take him out on trips as my “help.” I don’t even know what that is. Have to find out more about his boss and about him. Hosea has a hunch is somebody we used to know. I don’t know if I can believe it. Paid him twenty dollars $$$ for laying in the grass.

 

Charles (Smith) stopped by to let me know about some more ruckus happening downtown. Was going to investigate it but forgot. Can’t believe he’s a real man of that law now. He doesn’t look right in the uniform. Doubt it will last long. Man gets bored easy, but it’ll keep him off the street for at least a couple months.

 

Came across an abandoned fishing town. Lots of snakes. [pictured sketch of ruined buildings with snakes dripping off of trees]

 

Been taking Jo-Rip on more trips and he’s somehow growing on me. Like a fungus. He’s quiet most of the time but stupid when he ain’t. Enjoy getting him in the paintings, he’s got a wild look about him. He keeps looking at me when he thinks I ain’t paying attention.

John Marstons’ his real name. Described a story close enough to what Hosea figured and we’re pretty sure it really is little Johnny. Weird seeing him grown. If he truly is still running with Dutch, it doesn’t seem like they’re in a good place right now. If he’s got that boy so terrified then he must have really lost it since we last saw him. [pictured sketch of John Marston]

 

[pages filled with different types of plants labeled, and animals]

 

Charles (Chatenay) is visiting from France. Stopped by a gallery Jenny was hosting and it truly is astounding at just what comes toppling out of that man’s mouth.

Somehow has convinced me to at least try anatomy. I have tried it. I do not find it freeing. No painting is supposed to make a man go red, but maybe I don’t know much about art as I should. I think I’ll stick to painting landscapes in my free time.

However, for some reason unbeknownst to mankind itself, I can’t stop drawing John. Don’t know how many paintings he’s been in since I met the fool. Scared to count.

[sketches of John stretching, John by the fire, John smoking, and John with some of his clothes undone. The last one scribbled over.]

 

I am a right idiot, and yet, somehow, John Marston is a bigger idiot than myself. Found myself humoring him, just like everyone has always humored that boy. Things really never change. I let things get outta hand. I know that man’s got a family. He’s split in two and he’s got this look in his eye. Like he don’t know what the fuck he’s doing. Stringing the world along with him. I’m too old to be this naive and definitely too old to be messing with this thing addressed as romance. Think Gods playing a cruel joke on me.

[John drawn naked and asleep, messy and curled over on his stomach]

 

[blank page except for a horse]

 

[Sketches of graves and town] Here’s that empty town I found.

 

[Sketches of labeled mushrooms]

 

Dutch is stirring up trouble. He’s trying to create a war according to Little Johnny, and that ain’t no surprise. That man doesn’t know where he is or what he is doing. To think Bronte owns this city. Foolish bastard. Only starting trouble.

There’s an auction and Hosea and I have decided to make it a bit special. Charles, Lenny, and Sadie all volunteered to help out. Anything goes wrong I’ll hold a funeral for the Van Der Linde “Organization” here and now.

 

Wish I was a fly on the wall of that auction room. The plan went smooth. Shockingly enough some dumbass bought one even if the entire showing was a bust. Wasn’t for much, 150 whole American dollars, but I’ll take it. Don’t know what I’ll do with the painting of drunk John. Kinda makes me feel bad looking at it. Burn it? Nah. Pawn it off? Maybe. He’s gonna hate me for a bit, maybe forever. Hosea said it’d work out. It might, but it’ll cost a lot.

 

Yup, I was right. Won’t be seeing John for a long while. Poor boy is scared out of his wits, and I don’t blame him. As he was yelling at me I kinda wondered why I’ve been caring so much. A lot of this, it was Dutch related. The satisfaction of playing his little games. He always said I was too dumb for them. It’s slowly become more about John. An entangled mess of my own cold feet, foolish heart, and a desire to get someone a chance to find something better. I hope he’ll forgive me at some point but I don’t deserve him to.

 

Sadie said Bronte has been acting up, which is no surprise. The man was usually pretty easy to tell off. Two sided son of a bitch. He ain’t this city. But hell, he knows a lot about it. Politicians are in his pocket more than cigarettes these days. Our little tiny collection of misfits got our hands on things, but Bronte is a slimy rotten man. He’s got kids as his bodyguards for Christ sake. Only thing keeping Mrs. Adler from storming the place and taking the man dead or alive.

As much as it will be tough to see Dutch go against the man, I’ve gotta say it’ll be one interesting show.

 

[drawing of a buck, three dogs and a woman and a man sitting on a bench. Sketch of a building in Rhodes]

 

Dutch, Dutch, Dutch. It’s all I’ve been damn thinking about! Dutch and John. The past. Ghosts. Annabelle, Bessie. It’s been driving me half mad. He’s been trying to set up an arrangement with us. With us! Maybe the auction stunt pulled too much attention. I don’t know what’s stewing inside that mind, but it’s not good. Hosea and I still have some plans to make it work out. Jenny has been a right Saint. Charles has been keeping his eyes on the ground- Boy, what a convenient time for him being a man of the law. Still haven’t heard a thing from John. That man needs to learn the word “No.”

 

Went out painting to clear my head. Not for any reason. Painting for myself for once. Haven’t done that in ages.

Feels weird not having a Jo-Rip sitting in the grass near me. 

 

[Sketches of Emerald Ranch]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lemme know if i should keep writing these? theyve just been helping me keep arthurs motives straight in my head tbh. and i couldnt figure out how to incorporate john seeing them in the story so just have them!!!! just have them!!!!


	11. Graphite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is what johns painting ended up looking like if you were curious. please bully him in the comments: https://i.imgur.com/ipLkDnW.jpg

Angelo Bronte yelled out as his body was hauled over the railing. The only thing keeping him from death was John and Dutch’s tight grip on his clothes. Bronte’s balance fully depending on Dutch’s mercy.

“What do you see down there, Mister Bronte!?” Dutch’s voice was raspy. Intense. John fixed his hold on him. “Is it your city!? Do you feel like sharing  _ now!?” _

When Dutch said offense this is what he truly intended. The anger in his voice wasn’t about Bronte, it wasn’t about some shit city called Saint Denis neither. 

Angelo Bronte had the nerve to laugh as he was threatened to drop. “You need me! This  _ city needs me _ . Everything I own!! I own you too, you American SHIT! I am too powerful for you to drop me.” His words were said firmly but strained. Clearly struggling yet John has to admit it was interesting how collected Bronte was despite it.

“Powerful? You want to know about  _ power, _ my friend?” Dutch let go of Bronte a little more and John had to take more of his weight to keep the man from slipping from their grasp. “Is power going to save you here? Is power going to keep you from being scraped off the pavement? IS IT!?” 

Angelo Bronte didn’t reply to that, just kept struggling. It made him hard to keep from slipping, actually. 

 

“I’ll teach you about  _ power.”  _

 

Dutch let go. 

John was forced to let go.

 

Bronte didn’t scream as he dropped down the four stories and his body hitting the pavement sounded gruesome. John peeked over the railing in disbelief. Their enemy’s body crumpled and broken down below. Unmoving. Dead.

“Jesus…” John turned his head to his friends. Bill, Mac, and Davey stood nearby. It was hard to say something but it was harder to stay quiet. “Civilized, Dutch?” The man was in his sleepwear for Christ sake. Have they ever killed so ruthlessly for some god damn no good city? Did Dutch even want all this? 

Dutch was turned away with his hands on his hips, looked to John. “ _ Sometimes  _ we have to be uncivilized, to  _ keep,  _ what we  _ have _ .”

What do we have? He wanted to ask. What is all this? He wanted to ask more. 

He didn’t. Instead just watched as he walked off. The others kept their gaze off and followed. John took a final look at the balcony and followed suit. 

 

Bronte was dead. 

* * *

 

 

“Mister Dutch Van Der Linde.” Hosea said, his tone wasn’t any particular way, but drastically different than how Hosea would address a public customer. Hell, it was said differently than Hosea Matthews has ever said John Marston’s name. 

Dutch chuckled and stepped over to pat the man’s shoulder. “Hosea Matthews. How have you been.” His tone was different too. Wasn’t angry like John would have thought. It seemed genuinely a little happy. Then it lost it’s taste when he looked to the other one. “Arthur.” 

“Dutch.” Arthur replied back. Cool and calm. 

Hosea nodded. “It’s been alright since we last spoke.”  _ So they did speak.  _ “Ever since Angelo Bronte unfortunately passed things have been in a bit of a storm. It’s watering the plants, yes, but it’s starting fires just as well.”

“What an interesting way to put it.” Dutch paused. “You know, forest fires-  _ Fires  _ created by nature are beneficial to starting anew. Much like a phoenix. A ravenous path of destruction left with a new chance for life.” Arthur and John looked to each other. Arthur offered John a cigarette and hell yes he accepted it.

It was another one of those stuffy parties. When John was told Arthur and Hosea were going he genuinely thought the city would explode. That the moment Dutch would see the two of them he’d shoot both right in front of him. He’s been unpredictable. Incredibly unpredictable. But it seems he missed their first reunion,  _ thanks to Arthur and his flattering portraits.  _

They didn’t bring anyone else either. Just Dutch and him, with technically Davey waiting back with the stage. They were to salvage any contacts that were now lost without Bronte. With the success of those painting sales they had a little money to throw around. Just getting their name out would be beneficial to figuring out exactly how to worm into the depths of corruption. It was honestly sort of disgusting. Like cracking into a rotten egg. Looked fine on the outside but god damn did it stink.

“You know, Dutch.” Arthur spoke up. “I heard it was a  _ murder. _  Wouldn't exactly call that nature's work _."_ __ His words went dark, accusatory. Jesus Christ, Arthur. 

Dutch didn’t falter. “Is that so? What an unfortunate thing to say. I’m sure that man had many enemies. It was only a matter of time before it bit him in the ass.” He laughed brightly.

Hosea laughed softly with him, “That is true. He was an awful character.” 

“An awful character who kept the money movin’ around.” Arthur challenged again, smoke exhaling as he said it. John took a heavy drag. “A lotta people will be without jobs ‘cause of this. But I’m sure you properly know that as a person as high status as yourself. Hell, I’m sure you could help  _ out  _ while this Mister Bronte has been put out of commission. Isn’t that right?” John internally begged for Arthur to stop talking. 

Dutch, again, didn’t falter. “And I intend to! Life, it’s a dramatic cycle, Mister Morgan. And I must repeat myself, maybe in more softer words.”  _ So you can understand _ , Dutch didn’t say. “All of  _ this,  _ it’s just an opportunity. He was a poor, corrupt man. Removing a person, a Mister Bronte, from  _ power  _ can only end up benefiting a community, correct?”

“Until another roach takes his place.” 

He chuckled at that. “Yes. Until another  _ roach…  _ takes his place.” 

Silence. Awful, awful silence. John had finished the rest of his cigarette way too soon and he exhaled the last of the smoke. Dropped the butt to the ground and stepped it out. Arthur still had some left in his. It was always funny seeing Arthur all dressed up fancy. He looked good, don’t get him wrong, but it looked wrong. He noticed his hands were coated in paint, which was somehow endearing? That microscopic consistency of who Arthur truly was even within the situation. He seemed grumpy too. John wondered if the suit had anything to do with worsening it or if it was Dutch's presence alone. 

 

“So, John. How have you been liking the city?” Hosea broke the silence with some pleasant chatter.

He didn’t expect to be spoken to. “Huh? Oh, er. Would you like the honest answer or the one I’m supposed to say to you in the context of our surroundings?” 

“Why not both?” 

John shrugged, “I’d say if you’d give me the option between sleeping in the bayou and sticking here for my whole life I think I’d choose the bayou. But the gators ain’t so literal here so I think I’ll stick with the city for now.” 

Hosea chuckled softly but Arthur didn’t like that answer, “That so? I’m sure the gators would love a little midnight snack.” Said directly to antagonize him.

A rotten mood. It set John on edge. “I doubt I taste very good.” 

“They ain’t picky.” 

John narrowed his eyes. 

Dutch’s laughter snapped them out of it. “He’s joking. This is a  _ fine  _ city. It has it’s ups and downs, but it’s also full of potential. Speaking of, I think John and I should seek out some potentials. Isn’t that right, John? I’ve heard he’s become familiar with  _ most  _ of the art community with yourselves.” 

“He has! Has been a great help to boot.” Hosea nodded.

“Well, now I believe it is my turn to familiarize myself with the heartbroken politicians who need comfort in this, unfortunate time. I’m sure you understand.” 

“I do! I do. We’ll have to meet again. We have a lot to talk about if you do intend on having this sort of.. partnership! Here, you know what.” Hosea reached into his pocket and took out a card. “Here’s my card. I’ll be a lot easier to reach that way.” 

Dutch looked at it with a blank expression then he looked to Hosea. He cracked a large grin and patted his shoulder. “You have truly moved up in the world, my friend. I could not be more proud of where you have found yourself- Even  _ if  _ we have missed each other for these ten years.”

“Oh, you know. It’s been a journey.” 

“A statement has never been truer.  _ Thank you _ , for this. I will keep in touch- And Arthur.” He paused. “It was  _ so good  _ to see you.” There was bitterness in those words, even as masked with politeness as they were, John could hear it.

“Likewise, Dutch.” His words sounded fictitious. “Always a pleasure.” 

“John. Come with me.” Like he was calling a dog. 

John didn’t want to immediately follow, so he didn’t. “I’ll meet up with you.” 

“That right?” He looked to Arthur then looked back to John. There was a second of hesitation. “Of course. Don’t get too lost, my son.” There was an underlying sense of anger in his words at being told  _ no _ but John tried to ignore that too. He was relieved when he left. 

He looked to Arthur. “ _ What  _ is your problem?”

“What?” He acted innocent. Fucker. 

He looked to him then looked away. 

“I was  _ jokin’ around.”  _

“How many times I tell you that your jokes ain’t funny.” 

Arthur chuckled. “You need a better sense of humor.” 

“I’m worried.” Hosea broke up their tiny fight. “I’m real worried.” It wasn’t said loudly, almost just to himself, the man’s gaze off. 

They were all quiet for a couple moments. Then  Hosea brightened again. “Well, I think I’ll talk to a few people and then retire. As much as I love these little gatherings, they’ve become a bit overwhelming in my old age.” 

“Oh that’s it.” Arthur jabbed, a soft smile on his lips. Hosea just smiled at him. “I’ll catch you around.” 

“Yep.” 

That left them alone again, John let out a small exhale. He needed a drink.

“I need a god damn drink.” Arthur said his thoughts aloud. “And these,” he snagged a champagne glass from one of the waiters and downed it to then inspect the glass. “Tiny shits ain’t doin’ it.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Ditch with me.” 

John blinked. Then he chuckled. Knew he wasn’t joking but at the same time  _ he wasn’t joking.  _ That in itself was laughable. 

“I’m serious, Marston. I’ll even come with you to tell ol’ Dutch. Hold your pretty little hand. I’m sure getting on your knees and begging will work too.” His tone was daring and dark. His delivery on his “jokes” were always serious. His wit deadpan and tough. 

John slowly shook his head. This was a bad idea. 

“Ah, come on.” He stepped over and patted him on the shoulder, gestured over to where Dutch went off with the empty champagne glass. “What’s he gonna do?”

“Reckon a lot of things.” 

Arthur was close to him, in his space, hand still on his shoulder. Unrelenting in a way he held himself that John struggled to say no to. And Arthur knew he wouldn’t be able to say no to him. John pushed his hand off his shoulder and exhaled. Threw his hands in the air, made some indistinct noises. Arthur laughed brightly, his smile had a curl to it. Nose scrunched up as he shoved at him.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Come on, John. Let’s go get a drink.” 

 

Dutch was thoroughly confused. He knew he wanted to give him that “ _ We need you here.”  _ But he was in public, next to two politicians. He just smiled, looked to Arthur, looked to John.

“Of course.” It was in that strained, careful voice again. “I’m sure you boys need to catch.. up.” 

Arthur nodded, his tone clearly picked up since the last interaction. Or maybe it was just glib. “I’ll take good care a him. Won’t be out for too long.” 

“I trust you will.” Dutch did not trust Arthur.

Dutch wasn’t happy, John knew it, and he might hear about it later, but he didn’t say NO. He felt like a young boy getting what he wanted. Wanted to jump around and curse out his excitement. Shove it in Dutch’s face that he had the upper hand for once, but he didn’t.  He just calmly walked out with Arthur with his normal, discontented look. The moment the outside air hit the two of them John couldn’t quite fully express his shock. The humidity in the air somehow less suffocating than the tension in that mansion. Like exiting the place picked up an entire weight off his shoulders.

“You.. are a wild man, Arthur Morgan.”

“I’m wild? You’re hell of a lot more wild for thinkin’ to stick around! Half crazy too. You’d just go an’ do this? He’d drag you around like a prized pup?” He shook his head and walked to his horse. John followed. His own horse stabled across town.

“No, he would not. I’d pull my weight just fine.” John waited for Arthur to mount up before he could hop on the back, but Arthur didn’t just yet. 

Looked him in the eyes with a mean smirk on his face. “Ah, so you were a well trained pup. I see it.” He mounted it up. 

“To hell with you.” John scrunched his nose and unfortunately joined Arthur on the saddle. This time sitting flush behind him with his hands clutching his sides. Not laying over the back with his feet and hands bound. An interesting development.

 

They didn’t go to the saloon that John thought they’d go to. The fancy one he's drank at before. The moment they missed the turn to head that way, John made an uncomfortable shift in the seat. Maybe Arthur knew a better one.

“Where you takin’ me?”

“To the ‘gators.” 

“Uhuh.” 

“I’m just jokin’ with you. Takin’ you to the docks instead for a quick  _ swim.”  _ His laugh was mean. 

John just scowled. “Don’t make me regret comin’ with you.”

Arthur Morgan Just snickered. He really was in a mood, huh. John couldn't say he enjoyed it. And as they traveled farther and farther into the city, John was a little worried that they  _ were  _ going to the docks. Just for a moment. A little start of panic but quickly ended when they made a left turn. 

The air smelled like rain and when John looked up into the dark sky it looked a bit purplish. Kind of hard to concentrate on with the movement and the light pollution of lanterns and city life. Off in the distance he saw it, lightning flickering under the clouds. No thunder. Just lightening. The storm looked like it was coming their way. The wind bullied the trees to sway. To push at John's clothes. Forced him to hold his hat. It was pretty though. Perfectly timed as the metaphor Hosea had brought up. Wondered if the world ever cared about human drama. Probably not. Not any more than God does, at least.

Arthur’s horse slowed. “We’re here.” 

Doyle’s Tavern. It looked, hm… like Arthur and John were overdressed, to put that lightly. The green paint looked like it was peeling, the sign wasting away. Windows dirty. Even the warm lighting didn’t do it any favors, unlike what it usually did for the rest of the city. Looked worse because of it! Sickly. Arthur got off and helped John down. He didn’t even realize he was wearing disgust on his face.

“This place not good enough for you, Mister Marston?”

John chuckled, “No. Just feel like the moment we step into this establishment every person with three pennies in their pocket will start searching in mine.” He gestured to their suits.

“Ah, it’ll be okay. Just keep your hand on your wallet.” 

“Or my gun.” 

Arthur laughed. “See! There ya go. There’s hope for you, Civilized man, John Marston.” 

“Didn’t know there wasn’t before.” He exhaled and they entered before any more stupid comments could be made. Like it was on cue, John heard the start of rain begin to pelt down behind them. They got to stay dry for now.

The inside of this tavern felt worse- smelled worse- and was full of the like he expected. Oh, they were so overdressed. John felt sweaty and he undid his collar a little. Arthur leaned up against the bar and ordered them two drinks. John forced himself not to make eyecontact with any of the idiots around. Not that he was scared of them, no, he just doesn't think he could keep himself from not starting a fight.

The bartender did his job and set down two glasses. John took the shot quick and the whiskey tasted sharp and burned, poor quality but fuck it, it was whiskey. Tasted the same kind of brand Arthur kept under his sink. Fine enough for him. He inspected the shot glass afterward and wondered the last time it was cleaned. He set it back down to be refilled just to down another shot. 

They were four shots in and with beers in their hands by the time they got talking. 

“For your information, Morgan.” John started. The warmth in his chest already relaxing this awful pinch between his shoulders. “I was no prized pup. I would play  _ all  _ them politicians. I spoke good.” 

Arthur laughed and took a drink. “Did you now? I would love to see that! You, playin’ a bunch of fools in prettier suits. Did you let them pet your hair? Or lettem braid it.” 

“Oh, fuck you!” He laughed out. “It was a serious job! Still is! It brought in money better than whatever the hell it is you’re doin’.”

Arthur should have taken offense but he nudged him with a smile on his face. “It’s honest work-  _ Mostly.  _ Half the-  _ Some  _ of the time.” 

John laughed. Arthur was tipsy, could see that horrible mood from earlier slip away. John's too. 

“Like you got better ideas on what you’re gonna do when you get out. Mister Politician Wrangler Marston.” 

“Ah, Hell.” John blinked. He took another long swig. “I- I hadn’t really thought of that yet.” He laughed brightly and Arthur laughed with him.

“Really!?” He laughed louder. “Yer tellin’ me.” He started chuckling. “Yer on the run- Yer on the run and you don’t got a LICK of an idea of what’chu plan on doin’ after?” 

John shook his head, still grinning. “Yeah. That is correct.” 

“Oh my god, Marston.” He snickered. “Yer a bigger dumbass than I thought. Not a god damn idea.” 

“I got ideas! Er- Mostly! Hell, I don’t know.  _ Dreams _ , dreams count? Don’t they?” 

Arthur finished up his beer and set it aside. “Dunno. Is you sleepin’?” 

“No.” 

“Then I guess they don’t count.” 

John lost a little bit of his happy drunkenness. A little bit reminded of his reality. Fuck. He finished up his beer too. He needed another. The bartender supplied. Praise God. 

“Can’t you teach me?” 

“Teach you  _ what.” _

“The livin’ honest thing. You done it. You AN’ Hosea done it. I almost done it, kinda. Well, a normal life. Just- Er, without thievin’, shootin’ people. Lyin’, sneakin’. But then- Er, well I guess.” John shrugged his shoulders. Tried loosening his tie some more and took another drink of his beer. Words and alcohol didn’t do his thinking good. 

“What?” Arthur asked.

John laughed softly, shrugged dramatically again. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’. And Dutch!” He raised his glass. “ _ Dutch,  _ he,” John snickered, “He’s gonna see me dead.” 

“Ahhhh, He ain’t gonna  _ see you dead.”  _ He shoved at him.

“He is. And I woulda been had it not been for Micah Bell and yer, yer friend Charles Smith.” 

Arthur paused. “Huh?”

John just scrunched his nose in a small chuckle. Drank some more to try to block out that little sinking feeling called “emotions.” 

“No,” Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. “What’chu mean  _ Micah Bell. _ ” 

John hesitated before nodding, then looked at his hands. “Micah, as slimy as he is, he helped me up. From the- From the dock planks, that is. I think I owe him a debt. I think I owe him a debt and I dunno when the hell he’s gonna make me repay it. Or if he’s got somethin’ in mind. Or- Or why  _ he’d  _ go back fer me. I’ve been, wonderin’ about it. Fer, fer awhile now. After that, the Bronte business, whatever’s goin’ on with you an’ Hosea an’ Dutch. I just-“ he rolled the bottle between his thumbs. “I say I’m runnin’ but you an’ Abigail are right. I ain’t goin’ no where.” 

Arthur exhaled. Took a drink, set it down. He set his large paw of a hand on John’s forearm. “Listen, John. Listen. Just, listen to me. OK?”

John took a swig of his beer with the hand that wasn’t currently being dominated in a drunken clutch. “I’m listenin’”

“I am. I am gonna protect yew.” He leaned in a little more, staring as intently into his eyes as he could try to. “I’m gonna protect you, you an yer lady. And yer boy. You got that?” 

“Uhuh?” 

“I ain’t gonna let Dutch-  _ That sunova bitch Micah, _ or any  _ other fucker  _ in this shit city lay a  _ hand  _ on your head.” Arthur squeezed John’s arm a bit. It got John a little flustered, to be honest. 

He snickered and nodded. “Thank you.” 

“And if anyone- If anyone does.” He leaned in a little. “I’ll  _ kill them.”  _ His tone was serious enough for John to believe that to be true.

John just nodded again, swallowed. Would have actually liked to kiss him, right there in the bar for saying something like that, but even as drunk John was finding himself  _ there were lines.  _

“You know what- You know what!!”

“What?” John asked, a bit startled by Arthur's sudden enthusiasm. 

“I promised you, I damn promised you I’d help you. I did that. And- Well,” he chuckled. An infectious laugh that got John to smile with him, “I got you to be here, yeah. But, I can help you more than- Than take you fucking  _ painting.”  _

John watched as he took his hand off of him to start rifling through his satchel, grabbed out his journal and set it on the bar top. John watched him without a clue in his mind as to what he intended to do. He finished up that beer too and set it aside so he could focus. He closed one eye because it was better to pay attention that way. 

Arthur opened the journal and sloppily swipes through pages and John caught a glimpse of - Fuck- Something. 

“Wh-WaitWait- Hold on.” John stopped Arthur’s hands to pull at the journal to see again what he indeed did saw. Arthur made indecipherable grunting to wave him off. But he saw what he saw. “Was that me in there??” He laughed out. “Go back!”

“What? No. No, why, in the hell, would I draw  _ you.”  _ His drunken slur and the way he was blushing did not help his case. 

John fucking burst into laughter and shoved at Arthur’s shoulder. “Yer kidding!” Oh god, he was gonna cry. “I wanna see! Show em!” 

Arthur was laughing with him, “Ahhh, it ain’t nothin’! Get outta here!” He kept flipping. John got to see the glimpses of pretty drawings and handwriting he’s been itching to read. He had bet the thing held Arthur’s exact feelings toward him etched into the paper, probably detailing everything he’d never get verbally out from him. And also apparently drawings of  _ him.  _ The thought made him blush and fueled his laughter. Arthur flipped to a blank page and tore it out. Gave John a look as he stuffed his journal away and grabbed a pencil. 

“Okay!” He set the paper down on the bar top (it immediately got stained with liquids) and started scribbling. John leaned in to see what he was writing. 

The penmanship was heavy, thick, and dark. Still somehow pretty. Generally consistent to what he’s seen of his handwriting before. More rushed. He handed the paper over.

 

**_Sadie & Jake Adler - Doyle’s Tavern (HERE!)_ **

**_Sean McGuire - Ask Hosea. Go early._ **

**_MaryBeth Gaskill - Buchanan Public Library_ **

**_Jenny Kirk - La Coffre-Forte Gallery on 6th Avenue_ **

**_Leopold ~~Straos~~ Strauss-  Ask Dennis at the La Bastile Saloon for him. BE CAREFUL._ **

 

“Here.” 

John looked this over. He didn’t have the patience to read it. “What is it?” 

“It’s me, helpin’.” The bartender gave him another shot and he took it to slam it empty down on the bar. “You need money, don’t ya? If those names can’t get yew money, no one in this city can. And don’t you ever take money or tips from Micah Bell. He ain’t worth it.” 

“He’s been sorta helpful so far.” 

Arthur grunted. “Oh I am sure he has. Slimy bastard. I don’t trust him one bit.” 

John agreed with him on that one. 

“Mm. ‘Mm tired.” He folded the paper in half and tucked it in his jacket pocket. Ran his hand through his hair. 

“I promised Dutch I’d get you home safe, didn’t I?” Arthur snickered. He sighed afterward. “Let’s get you home then. To yer- Hah,  _ wife and child.”  _ He laughed again. 

John stepped away from the bar after setting the money for the last beer down and started leaving. Felt wobbly, upright, but a little bit disoriented. Especially with Arthur next to him constantly too in his space that it was hard leaving without stumbling. 

“They know about me?” Arthur said behind himself. 

“Huh?”

The second they stepped outside they were drenched. It was a warm type of rain. Lightening lit up the night sky a couple times. John looked up at it and felt the sky coat his face in the warm water. A free bath. 

“I said, does yer pretty wife and little boy know about the likes of myself?” He went over to his horse and mounted up. 

John followed suit and struggled to get on. So much so Arthur had to help. He leaned immediately way more into him than he had to, held his arms around his waist. “Mm, yeah, she knows.” 

“And she’s good with this?”

Arthur shifted in the saddle and John got comfortable. He closed his eyes. And even as they got soaked it was nice being up against him. So permanent. 

“Uhuh.” Was all he could manage, fixing his hold on Arthur. This riding position entirely non-platonic. One could even argue romantic, actually, but it was mostly drunk and John wanted nothing more to just hold Arthur. Fuck, he wanted to bring him inside the house, actually. Bring him into his bedroom. Sex optional-  _ optional.  _ Just  wanted him to hold onto him as he slept. 

A reminder, John was not an affectionate person, he believed himself not to be. He cuddled when someone would require it of him, or if Abigail would want to. Why was curling up against Arthur Morgan so appetizing? Why did he make him feel so safe? He's never  _needed_ that affection, nor ever truly wanted it. Not that it wasn't nice. Just. Wasn't something he particularly thought of.

John Marston was not someone who needed protecting, either, so why the hell did it feel so good hearing Arthur promise to? 

Here, in this moment. This very drunken moment. Of riding a horse pressed close to this painter, with a paper of promises folded in his jacket pocket, with his arms wrapped around his waist with his head resting between the man’s shoulder blades. Soaked to the bone. Thunder overhead. John wondered if this was what people regarded as….  _ You know. _ Love? Was it love? Drunken John figured it so. He sort of wanted to tell him that. Just like drunken John wanted to kiss him in his apartment. And no matter what decision he would make,  _in this moment,_  Sober John would kick his ass.

“Hell, Morgan..” his voice was lazy. 

“Mhm?” 

John laughed a little before he asked. “Think it’s possible for a man to love another man?” 

He felt Arthur shrug. ”Sure.” 

It was a stupid question- No, more like a  _ weird one.  _ To at least, ask that of a person who he has made love to. That it's possible to actually be in love. Is it? His question was stupid, but as John rode with him, he figured out he never believed it before now.

The two a them didn’t really talk more about it. The rest of the ride went by quietly after that. The idea sitting in the wet air. Arthur hummed and John struggled to keep awake. They had managed to get home at some point with minor directions. He doesn’t really remember when, but he remembers grabbing Arthur as he was helped down and kissing him hard. Nearly pulling Arthur off the saddle had he not been gripping firmly onto it. John exhaled. A little disappointed when his hand had to pull away from Arthur’s warm neck and jaw. So much of him craved to ask him to come inside. Sneak him in somehow. Hide him under his jacket.

“Have a good night, John.” Arthur said.

“Mhm.” He said back.

He dragged his soaked body into the house and somehow into his bed. Dreamed about his arms around Arthur. Dreamed about nothing. Dreamed about everything. Bronte was dead. Arthur, Hosea, and Dutch were all involved in a closer partnership. Things bubbled underneath that water, but he couldn't guess what. He had people he could now contact to get money. Jobs of some sort? People with tips? He's guessing he'd soon find out. Maybe it's some lost treasure map. Wouldn't that be nice. Guess Arthur would be the one with that wealth though if he had a thing like that he knew of. And John thought of becoming a treasure hunter suddenly. He thought of becoming a farmer. John didn't really think he was good at anything. So how the fuck was he supposed to make it out in a simple life, when the only things he knew were talking, stealing, and shooting? Stealing art. He was good at stealing art. 

He envied Arthur's adaptability. Wondered if maybe he was where he was at some point, where he wondered what the fuck he was going to do. Or if he just went out and did it.   
  
That year he ran away. It was out of impulse. Fear. He had plenty of money. He had a horse and a need to clear his head. Was it even really running away if he'd come back? God, John had no idea. He's thought about this dozens of times over. So many damn times, and he's always come to the same conclusion. He has no idea.  


So a start, would be to get money then. And to get Arthur Morgan to keep helping him. And he fully believed him when he said he'd protect him. John Marston didn't say it, but he knew he would do the same thing for Arthur. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so a bit of a shorter chapter than i usually write, just bc i wanna hear what yall want. im sort of delving into some serious plot to start wrapping things up right? hopefully! i have things planned. however, im not sure if you guys would want more like Hey Plot Is Happening kinda like rainstorm in the background of arthur and johns adventures or Plot Is Happening and Arthur and john are hanging out in the background. i guess, just wondering what yall want me to prioritize. either way next chapters gonna be thick so i just wanted to put a quick PAUSE and get feedback. i 'ppreciate all a yall and i dont wanna let you down


	12. Aquatint

To no ones surprise, things went wrong. Arthur had told him not to trust Micah’s information, but he hadn’t exactly been able to make that clear to Dutch. If the man even ever listened to him at all anymore. 

John, on the other hand, had taken Arthur’s list seriously. Visited each character written, and each one just as helpful as the last. Learned new skills, learned the surroundings more. Made connections that Dutch wouldn’t even know about. His face pressed right on the ground. Something he's never had to force himself to do before Galleries were so thin here, owned by all the same people. He had to branch out if he were to survive. 

Bounty hunting, running supplies, making connections with the mayor, finding rich men to rob. Finding a better poker ring than Davey and Mac ever found, and better yet, the man who could make sure he would win. Just mentioning Arthur and Hosea would usually get people to let him in on anything they were doing. Mentioning their names meant John would be trustworthy. But even with this help, these amazing jobs, it didn’t stop Dutch from risking it on more dangerous bullshit. He was still on this chaos business. That if they kept going on bigger heists, that they’d be able to rise up higher. And something new. He had focused on something very new.

 

“I have found the answer to all our problems, John.  _ Something better.”  _

John wouldn’t like the answer. 

“ _ Chicago.”  _

“Chicago.” John repeated, his nose involuntarily scrunched at the idea. 

“It’s the perfect plan. The perfect  _ escape.  _ I have found inklings, some  _ word _ , about Cornwall’s men even reaching all the way out here.” 

“What? From  _ who?”  _

“Mac heard some talk up in Rhodes.”

“ _ Some talk.”  _ John rolled his eyes

Dutch ignored it. “We have to work harder, John. I know you don’t like this city. And I owe it to you, I owe to all of you. A better life. Can you imagine it, John. Where  _ real  _ celebrities sit. Robbing  _ real paintings.  _ Not this local…trash. Chicago, my son.” 

“We’ve still got things here. What happened to owning this one?” 

“It’s a city full of bursting opportunities, but it’s  _ small.  _ Much like that Phoenix, John, we must create chaos to become anew. Once everything here has been rattled we can make our easy escape up north. We need money and we don’t have time. I need you to pull your  _weight._ And that means by any way necessary _.”  _

Chicago.

So these are the jobs they’ve been taking. Jobs Micah Bell has been nicely supplying to get on Dutch’s good side clearly for a motive John wasn't sure of. 

Even if the galleries they stole from were Hosea’s. And when John would bring that up. Dutch just replied “He didn’t get them honestly either.” and when John pulled pretty paintings off the wall he felt sickening guilt. 

This job felt exactly like the first few they ever did in the city. The warm light of the gallery, the set up the same. Smaller paintings, thank god, but it felt like a classic ritual. Comforting but also made him feel wary. And knowing Micah Bell has suggested it. Made him feel sour knowing it was his friends property. 

The worst thing…. The worst thing was that  _ he couldn’t tell Hosea nor Arthur  _ about these heists. John’s loyalty to Dutch was too strong. His pride was too high to be a rat- Even if he was emotionally compromised. And it’s not like he’s ever lied to Arthur- He’s just never mentioned it. That… counted for something right? Rock and a hard place. He had to choose. He chose Dutch. Again.

Javier had the wagon. They had the planks. They had Davey inside playing nice. The security was a little higher than that time before, but that didn’t mean it was difficult. They’ve gone against a lot worse. Palais Riche was an honest, good showroom. 

Dutch stepped through the window first after Davey gave them the OK. John second. The drop was small,and the paintings were too. The biggest ones probably 20x24. Some recognizable as Arthur’s. Subtle ways he figured out even if they were copies of famous art. 

“How-“ John tried to say to Dutch before he felt someone grab him from behind. He didn’t even really get to yell before the arm hooked around his shoulder. Strong arm restricting his neck. Something he would have easily punched and shoved away if he didn’t feel a cocked gun pressed to his head. Fear spiked and he instinctively grabbed the arm to keep him from squeezing, but ultimately froze up. Felt the man behind him pressed close against his back. How in the hell did Davey miss a man? 

 

“Dutch.” The man behind him said and John’s stomach dropped. That was Arthur Morgan’s voice. Really, Arthur Morgan? 

He saw Dutch turn around quickly and both him and Davey had their guns on Arthur and John in an instant. 

God, what the fuck was happening. 

He felt Arthur’s strong arm on his neck tighten just a little bit. He swallowed.

What the hell was Arthur doing. 

“Arthur.” Dutch greeted, “You could have just said hello.” 

“Drop the gun, Dutch.” Arthur said. He was calm despite the situation. “Unless you want poor Little Johnny’s brains against the wall. It’s been lookin’ like it needs a new paint job.” 

Dutch laughed, but it was careful, “There’s no need for that. Just tell me what you want, Mister Morgan.” He seemed at ease, even trying to make a point by holstering his revolver. 

Arthur wouldn’t do it. John knew he wouldn’t. But at the same time, Arthur must know Dutch wouldn’t believe him either. John shut his eyes for a moment, sucked in a short breath. 

“Buryin’ that rusty ol’ hatchet didn’t work too well for you, Dutch? Did killin’ Bronte not feel good enough?” 

“And you’re going to kill John for it?” Dutch asked.

“Might. You been makin’ a big enough mess here. Takin’ out someone useful for you as this boy might do some good for us.” 

“Useful? For me?”

Arthur adjusted his grip on John so he could force his hand to his neck, his fingers pressed to his pulse. Forced his head to tilt like he was showing him off. He  exhaled. “You hear that, John? He don’t even know how useful you have been to him. No wonder he left you to take that dive in the water. And I thought everyone knew you couldn’t swim. Did Dutch even think to go back for you?”

John struggled a bit, flaring up some anger, because what the  _ fuck.  _ John went to speak but Arthur’s grip on him tightened enough to stop him. Wasn’t even tight, just firm. A strong hold that struck fear through him enough to keep him compliant.

“I did  _ no such thing.”  _

Arthur chuckled softly, John disliked that sound in this moment. “You know, I ain’t too smart. Hell, John ain’t either. But I don’t know if you know this, but John’s played this city better than you have. He’s played  _ me  _ better than you have. A partnership,  _ really Dutch?”  _

Dutch clenched his jaw then relaxed it. His voice cracked as he talked. “What, is your  _ point.”  _

“This boys’ the reason why you an’ your posse last more than five minutes here. He dies and things’ll end up, haha, real bad.” 

Should John feel good to know that? For some reason he didn’t, and the reason felt very much like the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple.

“Or do you not even care?” Arthur’s gun pushed hard enough to tilt John’s head and he grimaced. 

Dutch narrowed his eyes. “ _ Of course I care.”  _

“Or do you care about that one more.” He nodded to Davey.

“I  _ care about every single one of my boys. _  Equally. ” __

“Then you better play this very carefully, Dutch.” 

John exhaled slowly. He knew Arthur wouldn’t kill him. He knew he wouldn’t. Arthur promised he would protect him. John.. He was a little more scared that Dutch would. That… that made him feel awful. He was being used as a bargaining chip here. It seems he always had been. 

“Carefully, Arthur? I think you must be confused. There is no  _ playing anything.  _ And you using Mister Marston here as a little  _ pawn  _ is truly… a bit disappointing. I would have expected better from Hosea.”

“Ah, you don’t know shit.” Arthur huffed. “What’s been up your sleeve then, Dutch. Tell me how you’re going to get on top.  _ You’re clearly ain’t appreciatin’ what you've got.” _

“I’m using what I have. It’s not fucking  _ business of yours- To the both of you who  _ **_RAN OUT ON ME._ ** Me! When I- I had a fucking  _ plan, Arthur!  _ I had told you- I had told you over and over again that if I had you two by my side it’d be okay! YOU did this. You forced my fucking hand! And you’ve got that- That SNAKE working for you now. What has he told you!? Everything!? The Bronte business?” 

“Haha, like he’d have to tell me  _ anything.  _ You’ve been real good, haven’t you, John? _ ”  _ Arthur fixed his hold on John’s neck. He swallowed again, his cheeks burned in anger. “No politician here thinks too highly of a  _ Dutch Van Der Linde.  _ I heard he’s a crook from the west. Too good for any Saint Denis man. Oh, but that boy John Marston. He’s got a mean look, all scarred up.” Arthur thumbed over John’s scars and John grimaced. “But he’s been doin’ good on jobs. You know, I heard he knows the  _ mayor _ . Honest man, resilient and dependable. I know rich men who’d tell him  _ anything _ .” Arthur said, a dark confidence. His tone full of poison. Sent a shiver down John’s spine _.  _ He addressed Dutch again. “You’ve gotten  _ sloppy, Dutch.  _ He’s the only thing that’s been gettin’ you anywhere.”

Dutch laughed. “By knowing people!? Or knowing  _ you.  _ And you assuming my motives _ ,  _ it’s honestly a bit laughable, Mister Morgan. Especially coming from some painter, of all things _.  _ I remember a man I could depend on, Arthur. And it just seems like my most loyal of brothers like to sink their teeth into my back.” 

His words hurt. 

Davey stayed quiet through all of this, which he couldn’t blame him for. He was more out of the loop than John was. He seemed genuinely emotional for John.  _ He  _ didn’t know Arthur wouldn’t kill him. 

“Ah. Shut your damn  _ mouth, Dutch.  _ For one goddamn minute. All I’m tryin’ to say, if you’d stop draggin’ up the past, is that if you don’t stop makin’ trouble. We’ll take what we want. And that could mean  _ John,  _ that could mean  _ yer little house,  _ that could mean  _ yer little crew.  _ You are over your head here!"

“You have no idea what I am capable of- Not then, not  _ now.” _

“Oh, I bet yer right, not a clue and not interested. Now, go on, Dutch.” 

“Go on with what?”

“Get outta here! No paintings, no nothin’. And you’re lucky I'm givin' you that.”

Dutch didn’t. “With John,  _ Mister Morgan _ ?” 

“Oh, I think I’ll hold onto him. A little insurance.”

There was some yelling from the front and it sounded like the law. Made all four of them freeze. Did Arthur really call the damn law on them?

_ Davey,  _ the _  idiot,  _ took advantage of Arthur’s momentary distraction and shot at him. There was no hesitation from Arthur, shot back twice and Davey yelled. John couldn’t even make out exactly what happened but when he blinked his friend was on the ground. 

“ _ No!”  _ John rasped out and fought against Arthur, but he forced him close again. Dutch focused on Arthur, clearly weighing options, but didn’t make any brash. He looked to John.

“Now get your idiot and get outta here!” Arthur yelled to him.

“We aren’t finished with this conversation, Mister Morgan.”

“I think I was pretty clear, but  _ sure _ . Send Hosea a nice letter in the mail. We’ll keep in touch.”

“I think I’ll do that.” Dutch practically hissed that out and went to Davey. John dug his fingers into Arthur’s arm, absolutely livid. Tried again to pull away, but Arthur readjusted his grip and forced him closer. 

Arthur hushed him softly, “Keep by me.” It was said only for him. He didn’t want to. Not as a fucking human shield.

Davey was alive. He groaned in pain, but sat up with Dutch’s help. Looked like Arthur shot his gun out of his hand and shot his shoulder. Arthur waited patiently for Dutch and Davey leave from where they came from. Both protecting the paintings and John. And in this moment, also Dutch. 

The law was yelling up the stairs when Arthur finally let go. John stumbled a bit and turned to immediately punch Arthur in the face. He put his entire weight into it and Arthur growled in pain and held his jaw. Even stumbled. 

“Son of a bitch, Marston! That’s one hell of a thank you.” 

“What in the  _ hell  _ did you get me into!?”

Worse yet, Dutch and Davey left through the back meaning Arthur and John were still in the building. Arthur could have easily put his hands up and offer his ownership of the paintings, but he didn’t. Instead he pulled that beautiful Lancaster repeater from over his shoulder and raised it to take out two police officers entering. John took a couple steps away from Arthur, stunned. 

_ Jesus Christ, what a man he has ended up with. _

John believed Arthur when he said he’d kill any man who’d try to hurt him, but holy shit. It wasn’t what he imagined. It was as if at every turn of this night he intended on shattering every previous thought of him.

Or maybe force him to realize he was romanticizing him a little bit.

No matter everything that just transpired, I guess they were doing this. John armed himself with his revolver and followed Arthur to the door. Just them shooting attracted the law. And of course, Saint Denis had plenty. 

But even with all this, Arthur and him made it out of the gallery with minimal effort. Arthur made it look  _ easy.  _ John was the best marksman of his friends, Dutch has taught him everything he knew and he had easily surpassed him in the matter of years, yet Arthur was somehow better than him. That was terrifying to learn. 

“This way.” Arthur motioned over to the right. There were more lawmen yelling and the whistling was obnoxious and unrelenting _.  _ He had grown used to it with all the times they had been set up in the last couple months. Except Bronte was dead, so what was going on? He slid over to some cover nearby and Arthur joined him. The two of them took a moment to reload their guns. 

“Who the hell called the law on you.” Arthur asked.

“I was thinkin’ it was you.”

“You’ve got that little faith in me now?” Arthur joked and left cover to shoot. John watched his concentration. He was like a machine. He’s never seen Arthur kill a man before and Arthur did it with such little hesitation.

Arthur’s hands were still coated in paint as they always were. Blue and red finger tip on the trigger. John noticed that.

He took a sharp inhale and left his cover to take on the lawmen. To make himself useful and stop gawking at Arthur Morgan. To prove that he was just as talented. When it was clear and they had killed, what, 8 or 10 men? They moved to the alleyway. Two men were there waiting for them and right when John was going to shoot them, Arthur stopped him. Before he could argue John got to see the lawman on the right blow the lawman on the left’s brains out. 

_ Charles Smith.  _

“You two. Come this way.” 

“Always good to see you, Charles.” 

“I just killed a man with a family. So no, it isn’t.” 

“Ahh, I would’ve had to kill him if you didn’t.”

“You wouldn’t have had to do  _ anything.”  _ They followed along after Charles, sneaking through the shadows. “Now, we have to keep quiet. Use your guns as little as possible, got that?” 

“Okay.” John nodded, but found the order highly unrealistic. The whistling got close and John already instinctively reached for his gun but Arthur grabbed his arm. Charles handled it. A throwing knife to the face before the poor man could figure out anything. No more whistling. They continued.

“There’s an abandoned building just up ahead. A storage space. You should be okay there if you don’t alert any law getting there. I’ll head the other way and distract them.” 

Arthur chuckled lowly. “What would I do without you, Charles.”

“Would be dead by now, I’d guess. How the hell did you get yourself in this mess anyway?”

“Oh, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it later.” 

“Okay. Stay safe.” 

And Charles was true on his word, ran the other way whistling on that obnoxious way of communication. Yelling that he found the two of them, leading to the exact opposite way.

They kept going forward, rushing from shadow to shadow. Any law they found themselves against the two of them used knives to solve their problems. They were nearly to the building when a couple lawmen turned the corner in front of them and scared the absolute shit out of John. He reflexively grabbed his gun and shot the first man three times. It was uncalculated and panicked. 

The other one was about to shoot but Arthur took his offhand sawed off and clocked the man in the face. Got him dazed enough to grab him by the collar and force him down to the ground. John watched as Arthur pressed the barrel to the man’s neck and blew his face right off.

John was struck with shock seeing Arthur do such a thing. And to see how absolutely unbothered Arthur was about it. He just dropped the man and ushered John to head to the building. Shot the lock off it and slammed it open. John rushed in then held the door closed as Arthur dragged a crate over to block the door.

They could breathe. The panic ending for now. Sent into a silence except for the distant whistling and yelling. Where he could process exactly what the hell he just saw.

 

The place was dark and dusty, anything of interest covered in white sheets. Mirrors, chests, crates, and barrels. The moon illuminated the dust in the air with a beautiful blue. 

John turned to Arthur. He was covered in the man’s blood. Holstered his gun. John felt an absolute  _ mix  _ of emotions toward him. Anger, shock, amazement, and lust. The last one confusing himself a little bit, yet it was the strongest one. The panic might’ve had something to do with it. The adrenaline. He had so many questions. So much information he had to comprehend.

“We should lay low in here for the n—“ John didn’t let Arthur finish as he walked forward and grabbed him, ignoring how Arthur tried to push him away and forced him into a kiss. Arthur’s fight stopped immediately, expecting that to be the  _ last  _ thing John would be doing. Didn’t mean it wasn’t welcomed. 

John wrapped his arms around him and held him closer. Their kiss turning open mouthed and needy. Arthur’s hands slid down to hold him. 

The whistling was still loud outside and they both broke the kiss to look to the window. John pressed forward moving them to the crate in front of the door. Forced Arthur to sit. The man did willingly, parted his legs so John could fit between them and overwhelmed his mouth. His hands dragging over him, never stilling. Arthur’s hands found themselves doing the same, ending up at Johns ass and kneading at it, grabbing tight at what he could and getting John to groan lowly into his mouth. His tongue licked against Arthur’s, tasted blood that was neither of theirs and that ran a chill down his spine. His hand went down to palm at Arthur’s groin.

John kept breaking the kisses just to kiss him again. God, he couldn’t figure out why he found him so attractive. Why he was so turned on by just thinking about Arthur ruthless like he was. The anger of being used somehow conflicting and fueling his adrenaline. The memory of Arthur’s hand on his neck. How he spoke to Dutch. John’s hands undid Arthur’s gunbelt. 

Arthur talked through the kisses. “Mm, whatchu doin’..” He pawed at him, feeling him up, messing with John’s clothing. 

John’s voice was low and raspy against his mouth. “Take me here.” 

Arthur chuckled warm in his chest. “What is with you?” John rubbed the heel of his hand against Arthur’s clothed cock. Kissed along his jaw. 

“You owe it to me.” He breathed out. Undid Arthur’s zipper.

The man was suddenly very interested in getting his artillery off himself and off of John too. Guns and ammo set aside. John had already took the initiative to take Arthur’s cock out of his pants and stroke it a couple times. Was easy to kneel down. Arthur exhaled. His hand passed through John’s hair. Before Arthur could even say anything witty or stupid John had already taken it into his mouth and sunk down on it. The man was half hard and John worked to change that. 

Sucked on it, wary of teeth and flattened his tongue and relaxed himself. He gripped onto Arthur’s thigh and jerked off what he couldn’t immediately fit in his mouth. Felt himself drooling as he did it. Slowly at first but didn’t have the patience to tease him. Couldn’t think of all of that Dutch nonsense with a cock stuffed in his mouth, now could he? When he was concentrating on sucking and making Arthur purr above him. It sounded disgusting, the work of spit and the bobbing of his head. Pulled off from him just to jerk him off faster and press his tongue along his shaft. Licking up his own saliva and Arthur's precum. When he looked up, he got to see Arthur enjoy it.

His cock ached in his pants and John ignored it for a while longer, desperately wanting to take it deeper down his throat. To until he gagged on it, and if he did he wanted it more, until tears pricked his eyes and had him fully down his throat before he had to pull off just to cough. Arthur petted him, hushed him in some comfort. John didn’t hesitate to go back down and try it again and to keep doing it. His free hand palmed himself greedily as he focused on his job. Fully distracted on sucking and tasting him and taking him in. Arthur’s cock tasted like the best thing in the world right now, or at least John pretended it did.

He heard Arthur exhale and then he moved to gently pull him up. Kept jerking him off, still focused on him. John struggled to catch his breath, winded and a bit nauseated from abusing his poor gag reflex. Wondered why the hell he was being stopped.

Arthur wiped the saliva off his mouth for him with his thumb. Clicked his tongue to catch his attention.

“Stand up, Marston. You’re getting distracted.”

He was right. He could feel his cock twitch in his pants and he sighed softly. Swallowed. Nodded then stood up, Arthur pulled him flush to kiss him. They spent some time doing that, knew he tasted like Arthur, he rolled his tongue against his anyway. His hands went to undo John’s pants then unclipped his suspenders, undid his vest.

Arthur dipped down to kiss at John’s throat. Where his hands just recently threatened to choke him. Dragged his tongue along him and his teeth gently followed the same path. John groaned softly. 

John’s pants were pulled down to his ankles and Arthur jerked him off insistently. His free hand petting him. Comforting him. Being sweet when he was so merciless just before. Being the Arthur he‘s found. Not the…

 

Not the one ten years ago…. Not the one who threw dirt at him for failing to kill a man over 63¢. Not the one who just shot a lawman point blank.

 

John reached over to his satchel that was discarded and searched through it quickly to find a tin that held many, many promises.

He kissed Arthur on the mouth and spoke against his lips. “Hell... Take me, Arthur Morgan. Here.” 

“Alright.” There was a close whistle outside that made them both snap their attention to the window. “Better keep it down, don’t want to give the law a sh-“ John interrupted him with another kiss and carefully joined Arthur on the crate. “Mm, quit interruptin’ m-“ John kissed him again.

“What was that, Mister Morgan?” John rasped softly. 

“You’re an idiot.” They kissed a couple more times.

They both laughed a bit as it was a little awkward to get comfortable. John’s poor legs restricted by the ankles. Both of them fighting with the space of the crate. No matter, they figured it out. John took the tin and foregone prepping himself to slather it on Arthur’s cock. Didn’t give Arthur enough time to argue that it was important before taking his cock and letting himself push it down into himself. 

It  _ was  _ an important step, but what was more important was getting Arthur’s dick inside him and  _ deep.  _ He growled out in pain as he slowly forced himself down until he hilted him inside completely. There was a strong pain and ache, but the pleasure was somewhere in there. A hint. An afterthought that made it worth it. Made John a gasping mess when he wasn’t growling in pain. Arthur’s hands set on his thighs and massaged at his skin. Tried to comfort him.

John didn’t even remember closing his eyes and when he opened them he got to see Arthur flushed, his lips parted just slightly to pant. Gorgeous and a mess just from John. He took in a sharp breath and shifted his position a little. Grimaced as he felt his cock move just a bit inside him. His senses sharp enough to feel  _ all of it.  _ The thickness, how warm he felt, how tight he was around him. God, it hurt. 

John lifted himself up just a little to sink himself down. Groaned lowly. Started nice and slow, forcing himself to relax. Arthur’s hands rubbed his thighs. The pain became a lot more bearable as he started up a small rhythm. Picking himself up and rolling back down. Stuffing every inch into him with short gasps. Less of an up and down motion and more circular, rolling it out then deeper. His eyes were forced shut a lot but whenever he could look at Arthur it only struck him to fuck him harder. Beautiful, cold blooded, amazing. The man’s hands grabbed at his ass, helping his pace, encouraging him. The crate hated their weight.

John didn’t stop, giving short groans every time it hit somewhere absolutely perfect, rushing pleasure through him. Arthur would undo his shirt  and ditched his tie just so he could kiss at John’s bare chest. They adjusted their position so they could meet up to slide their tongues against each other’s. His hands grasped tightly at him, like the only thing grounding him as he focused on fucking himself with Arthur’s cock. Thought of how he showed him off to Dutch. Thought of how Dutch looked so pissed because of it. He should see him now, taking Arthur Morgan’s cock up his ass and making him a huge mess. How he’s proven “useful.” It was a bit funny, in a way. Comical, he guessed. John pulled Arthur’s hands up higher to encourage him to feel him up. And they did, intimately and strong, pushing under the fabric of his clothes, leaving kisses on bare skin. 

“Mn,” He started, his raspy voice only raspier as he tried to speak, “Ah.” He tried again. “Arthur.” There we go.

“John.” He voiced back. Equally ragged. 

He jerked himself off as he kept up his pace. There was some discomfort in his legs and abdomen after awhile of this. Not painful, but tiring. The crate was uncomfortable on his knees. 

Anyway, he was trying to communicate something. It was hard to when staying in their current position was so appetizing, but John figured he was doing too much work. He slowed his hips, stopping his fast pace to rock lazily against him.

“You owe me.” He said. 

Arthur grunted out a short laugh. “I do.” 

John got up and off of him and slid off the crate with minor difficulty. His body burned for so many reasons. Ached in very intimate places, felt awfully empty. His body hated Arthur's cock in him at the beginning, and now it hated it without it. 

“Ahh, I get it. I get it. I really owe you, huh.” Arthur moved to push John gently down over the crate. John shifted to get comfortable, his hand down at his cock to touch himself. Arthur rubbed his dick up against his ass for a moment then pushed into him. It fit in him different, got John to grunt softly. Arthur blessed him by pushing in deeper, a lot less resistant since the start. Pulled out a little then bottomed in again. John groaned and grabbed at the white sheet sitting on the crate. Arthur didn’t play with him, he  _ did _  owe him after all. Although it was a bit slower, he bottomed in every time, he had a firm grip on John’s hips, tilting him up a bit. That sent a shiver through him, immediately wanted that again.

“Hell- Ah. Arthur. Arthur- There.” He said quite differently than a command, more like a beg. Whispered and ragged, lust laden and Arthur would think it was beautiful. To get John Marston to beg.

Of course he would fuck him harder, of course he would earnestly try and please John to the best as he knew how. 

To adjust his legs further apart to reach deeper in him and hear John yell out as he started a rough, fast pace. Shallower to prioritize the quickness, but mixed in with hitting him hard and every time John would find himself shouting. Couldn’t keep it in. He couldn’t quite describe the feeling, but he craved it. His body arched over and quaking. His hair fallen in front of his eyes. A genuine mess and ultimately Arthur’s. His brain couldn’t understand it, how it could feel so good.

John looked behind himself, his lips parted as he panted feverish, could hardly focus. 

“Do it in me.” A command, not a beg.

“Of course, Mister Marston.” His voice was low. John dropped his head again and kept up continuous small groans as Arthur kept up with what he was doing. 

He felt Arthur’s hand push through his hair, not out of the ordinary, then he felt him  _ pull.  _ John gasped, couldn’t even get a good moan out, choking on it as Arthur kept that hold on him. Forced himself upright and overwhelmed by the shuddering pain and pleasure that shook through him as Arthur kept that grip and fucked him harder. 

“I’m-  _ Agh, Arthur!”  _ He yelled out and stroked himself quicker as he reached his limit, the pleasure sitting in his stomach overwhelming. The pain mixed with the feeling of ecstasy. It was a bit embarrassing how shortly he came after his hair got pulled. He should probably look into that. Right now he didn’t even have enough thoughts to think. His entire body buzzed and Arthur fucked him through it with his fist in John Marston’s hair. The moment he stopped stroking himself he immediately grabbed the crate for balance, felt like he was going to crumble. Couldn’t even remember shouting, groaning lowly every time Arthur continued to thrust into him. 

Felt Arthur paw at his ass, gripped it as he took advantage of his tightness. Heard him grunt and mumble things to him. That low, intimate voice. The one he usually used for his horse, but lower and more for  _ John.  _

Calling him good, saying he was perfect, little tiny things that made no sense. Broken thoughts for him.

Before he had to beg he felt him stutter his hips and all at once felt Arthur bottom in. Made him growl out as he was filled deep, his toes curled in his boots. He felt disgusting. Amazing. 

Arthur pulled out immediately and he felt his cum drip out of him, ruined. He was repulsed by himself, but it was worth it. So worth it. Worth having Arthur come up behind him and not leave, petting him, cooing at him. Comforted him. John continued to just pant softly and he felt Arthur pull John’s pants up. Did not help to how much of a wreck he was, but it gave him a little modesty. 

“You’re alright. You did good.” He heard Arthur mumble to him.

“Thanks.” John grunted.

Arthur looked a lot more put together than he was when he took a look at him. Flushed, out of breath, sweaty, but better than John. The man went over to the window to check on things. With his lack of reaction it seemed to be good. 

He went over and sat down next to the crate. John slunk down and managed to sit next to him too. Still sort of in a haze of whatever the fuck that was. 

Arthur rifled through his jacket and found a pack of cigarettes. Offered one to John and he accepted it, took one for himself then lit them both. They both took a long drag and exhaled the smoke together. Somehow found that funny and chuckled softly together. Arthur leaned a little more on John. They kept quiet for a bit. 

“I still ain’t happy wi’chu.” John drawled, smoke exiting with his words.

“Mm. I told you I’d protect you.” 

John huffed a laugh. “N’ how was that protectin’ me? Pissin’ off Dutch then shootin’ half the Saint Denis police singlehanded?” 

Arthur looked over and turned John’s jaw towards him, the back of his fingertips running over his scars. “He ain’t gonna let a thing happen to you if he knows you’re useful.” He leaned in and kissed him slowly and open mouthed. John was too exhausted to do anything except let Arthur lick into his mouth and talk against it. “Nn’, you’ll really be his little  _ prized pup _ . Advertise you as his. Brag about you.” Kissed him again, his words so distracted by John’s mouth. “Just like he wanted you in that fancy California. Ain’t that right.” He smiled for a quick moment then lost it. “Micah wants you alive. We want you alive. He will want you alive.” Arthur’s words were low. “Then you get enough money.” He breathed against John’s mouth and got him flustered. “N’ you get out.” He pressed forward to kiss him some more, their tongues tired and slow, but sloppy and inattentive. 

John brought up something that had been bothering him. “N’ what do I do after?” His mouth was still against Arthur’s. Felt like their conversation was being spoken into each other. 

Arthur grunted, “What do you wanna do.” 

There was some delay between the response. John taking the initiative to kiss Arthur Morgan deeply. Lean into him just a little bit and feel his affection. The cigarettes exhausted themselves as they made out like boys. Humming against each other’s mouths, heads tilted so far the flat of their tongues rubbed affectionately. Even when the kisses broke, they still had their tongues lazily licking each other’s, like the point of it all was to eat each other. His body ached but he felt so entirely addicted to him and the awkward position didn’t help. Answered that question on it's own.

“Be wi’chu.” He added anyway.

He felt Arthur smile and he heard him laugh second, that breaking the intense make out. His voice wasn’t as humorous.

“No you don’t.” 

John leaned into Arthur more, flicked his useless cigarette away. 

“I do.” 

“No you don’t.” 

“And what makes you say otherwise.” He pulled away some. Whatever response he wanted from Arthur it wasn’t this one. The two of them wiped the spit off their mouths. 

“I ain’t got no business being with a boy whose got a woman and a kid. As it is, this is bad enough.” 

“I ain’t a boy.”

“Well you’re acting like one.”

John frowned at him. Arthur seemed to feel a little guilt on that, his hand going and setting itself on John’s upper thigh. 

“You aren’t going to get what you want, John.”

“Dutch wants to leave, Arthur. He’s saying Chicago. If I don’t go.. I can be here with you. And with Abigail and Jack. It’ll be okay.”

“ _ Chicago?”  _ Arthur laughed out, squeezed John’s thigh then rubbed the spot. Like he owned it. “Ain’t that just hilarious.. But okay, John. If you make your little escape while Dutch is goin’ off I’ll be right here. Is that acceptable to you? Or do you want me planning it all out for you like papa Dutch does. Tell you what to be and how to do it.” His hand squeezed hard enough to hurt and John pawed at him.

“Enough a you. Just.. augh. I’m just not good at anything. I don’t want to be some posh idiot but that’s all the good I’m sitting at. You know what I wanted, Arthur?”

“What’s that, John.” 

“I wanted a little house by a lake. Wanted you to be there by me with my wife and child, just the four of us living off that land. To be by you and simple.”

“A house by a lake.”

 

Some silence.

 

“And this is from the same man who gets upset when his fancy clothes get dirty?” 

John sighed. 

Arthur rubbed his thigh rhythmically and leaned on him. “You know, when I first ran off, I had a life all set up for myself. Was to go off with Mary and have dozen a kids. Hosea went off this way with Bessie. I know they had a home somewhere. I was to be, I dunno, something bigger than myself. I got stupid jobs, like bringing mail to other people, doing paperwork. God damn it, Marston, I was doing  _ paperwork _  for richer men. I hated that more than anything. She didn’t end up marrying me neither- I ended up sad and alone here in Saint Denis. Selling  _ fake paintings  _ and duping people out of their hard earned money, when it'd be ten times easier just to rob 'em. So what I’m trying to say is,” he exhaled, “You’ll figure it out. Or you better. And doing anything is better than doing nothing.” 

John sighed. “That didn’t help one bit.” That sat some more silence between them.  


“A house by the lake." Arthur broke the silence. "Imagining you in cowboy clothes.” He chuckled, “Spurs and all. Sometimes forget you were that tiny little rat we wrangled from somewhere westward. How many fancy jackets with that many gold buttons do you own now.” He could hear the damn smirk on his lips. “Ten? Twenty?”

“I really wish I could figure how much fun you have gripin’ me.” 

“Oh, so thirty. That’s quite an assortment.” 

“Shut yer mouth.” He chuckled and he felt Arthur kiss the side of his head. A tiny bit of affection. Stupid, idiot man.

They were both tired, both exhausted, but they didn’t stop talking. Fought a couple times too, but Arthur managed to mellow him again. They talked about serious things mostly but light hearted things too. Cracked John’s little brain open a little more and he got to see more of Arthur. Soak in a night together with just the two of them after a terrible heist gone wrong. Blood on their clothes. Sweaty and ruined.

At some point in the night, or technically early morning, he convinced Arthur to have sex with him again. Let him ride him there on the ground, sleepy and tired. Got to feel his hands on him. The quiet light of peeking in on them from the windows. 

He was safe. For now.

An odd thing, he thought about as he rolled his hips down on Arthur’s, his hand in his, is that he had to let himself be manipulated just to keep alive. It was a brash choice. Didn’t seem like something Hosea would think to come up with and looking into Arthur’s determined eyes he figured it probably wasn’t. An original Arthur choice.

This could blow up in their faces. John wondered if it would. Outsmarting Dutch wasn’t easy but it seemed Dutch was clearly underestimating him. However, it could mean Dutch could push back harder just to prove something. To burn the place down with John inside purely to punish them. Or find a way to hurt Arthur with John helplessly watching. A terrible prediction.

John stopped thinking for a bit as he got distracted forcing Arthur’s cock to abuse his prostate. He gasped softly and fixed his position a little, relaxing his posture like riding a horse with even his free hand helping him balance behind him.

To think again, it all really depended on how Dutch will proceed on this Chicago plan. And whatever John decided to do to save himself, he needed a backup plan. He needed a way to keep Abigail and Jack from getting crushed by the shrapnel. He could look into that, there were plenty of people he knew who were good at lying low-

Arthur smacked his thigh and John grunted in surprise. “ _ Faster.” _  And John half laughed as he obeyed. His light “trot” turning into something harder.

So, John decided he could just keep what he was doing. React to Dutch rather than fight him. The stunt will truly rock where he stood with him. Anything can happen, he reminded himself. Anything will happen, he reminded himself too.

He’s just an art thief whose doing more jobs. Nothing more, he tried to remember. Downplay this maybe,

“Yes,” he ended up saying aloud to his own thought. “Yes.” He said again with a short groan. Heard Arthur growl under him.

He doesn’t  _ need to leave  _ to have that place by the lake. It doesn’t need to happen all right away. He can do this. He can figure it out. Protect his family, his friends, the man laying under him, and himself. Dutch made him who he was, that's true, but that also meant he was capable, right? He wasn't stupid. He had tools. He could figure this out. As John found his confidence in himself, in his own plan. His uncertainty fading, feeling less lost than the start of all this, he picked up his pace.

Arthur forced his hips down and finished inside him for the second time. John came over Arthur’s chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent a good half an hour dressing up arthur and john on my separate save files to what they wear in this au and its super cute. john wears so much clothing


	13. Journal II

Been thinking about it. A lot. Just  who owns this city? And I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s the most idiotic question I’ve been wondering. Dumber than wondering what John’s been up to. Dumber than thinking about ghosts. All of this bullshit smells worse than the streets of this place. I remember when a Mister Bronte kept his slimy fingers to himself. It’s nearly a gang war at this point. Hardly been seeing Charles the past weeks now because of it. I went and  TOLD HIM TO LEAVE . That’s too much to ask of a Dutch Van Der Linde apparently. Sick of the chaos that this place is fallen in. Maybe John’s got the right idea.

[pictured scene of Saint Denis]

 

Hosea and I finally met with him. We’ve been ignoring his invitations for little while. Felt like it’d make things worse but Hosea finally convinced me to give him a chance. Feels like we never left but at the same time it feels like we’re talking to a stranger. I don’t know how to feel about all of this. Maybe I am too dumb to be playing these games. I’ll stick to painting.

[pictured Dutch and Hosea]

 

Poor John Marston. That poor damn boy. God himself pulled him out of that water, I guess. He told me it wasn’t Dutch. Did he even think to go back for him? John finally asked me for help and I’ll do what I can. He needs money and he needs a plan. I should’ve been helping him earlier. I should have done a lot of things earlier. John’s saying he’s lost and I know he’s looking to me to guide him, however I don’t know if I’m any less lost than he is. We’re all fools and I’m sure someone’s gotta make sense of all of this someday, or we’ll all end up dead in a ditch with God laughing at our corpses. Think the latter is more likely.

Stop drawing these, idiot. [Sketches of John Marston. Some laying in bed sleeping]

 

Dumbass bird.

[sketch of bird perched on windowsill]

 

Bronte is dead. Suicide, huh?

I keep trying to figure this all out. I remember when I thought it was gonna be smooth and he’d just be passing through. Boy, was I wrong. 

Worst thing about this is that I think I kinda began to like that bastard. Not a man here ever let me paint what I wanted and pay me handsome for it. He was still an absolute menace. 

✝️ AB

[blank second page]

 

[pictures of labeled flowers and herbs]

 

A girl in the city was looking for her man. Said he’s been hanging around the factories and acting real suspicious like. Assured it ain’t no business of mine but she offered to pay.. Real shocked when I found that character with a two dollar whore. Says it’s love. And to my surprise she overlooked this man’s infidelity despite me offering to punch his lights out. Says true love and God will make it work. I can’t imagine a romance as complicated as that. Even worse, they didn’t pay me! 

[sketch of the woman, the man and prostitute by the docks holding each other]

 

[sketch of townhall]

 

Got John to tell Dutch “No” for once. As stupid as I find this man he’s making me out to be a selfish idiot. Drunkenly he asked me a question, he did. Some words, no matter how they came out in a sentence, held the same ring as how I talked to Mary all those years ago. If I was a smart man I would have said no. I’ll excuse it to the day I die that if I was a little bit more sober I would have ended it all right there. Doubt a man in the world would believe me. Not even my own pathetic self.

He wants me to be something and it’s such a childish imagination. Couldn’t be that for anyone, let alone a man with a family. Yet, even with that guilt, I ignore it and humor him. And I say “humor him” like isn’t just humoring myself. I’m selfish. I've always been. And never once has it gotten me a damn thing. It’s hard seeing John so loyal but so lost. He wants to be someone but he’s also someone else. And he wants all of it. I wonder who that reminds me of.

 

Marybeth and I went out for a walk and nearly got robbed. This city is the worst. Anyway, she’s doing well. John already met up with her and she gave him some good leads I guess. I warned her again to be careful but she doesn’t seem to mind one bit. A dangerous woman. She’s almost done with that book she’s been writing. I should probably give the first one another read.

 

The boys’ been doing good I hear. Doing jobs not even I would touch. A hard worker. Didn’t once doubt it. The city has grown to like him, or as much as this dirt city can like a person. Think he’s just so persistent at making money he isn’t letting anybody not be in his debt. A true Van Der Linde boy. 

It scares the shit out of me knowing Dutch left him for dead once, scares me more knowing he left him for dead twice. The boys got a family for Christ sake. No matter what is between us, I promised I’d help him. I’ll figure something out.

[blank page] 

 

[sketches of a cat and a dog. Some sketches of trees. The bayou. An alligator]

 

[sketch of an odd insignia]

Keep finding these on buildings. What are they?

 

I pulled a real dangerous stunt last night. In hypotheticals, it should work, but by God Dutch Van Der Linde don’t work by simple laws of nature. I know that more than a man should. And I’ve got Marston here next to me. Trusting in me that I made the right choice. Really hope I did. After talking with him I think John sees it too. How to, I don’t know, get out of this mess. That telling him that if he’s something to keep around will indeed keep him around. 

And I’m not sure on Hosea anymore. I think he was actually hoping Dutch to be honest on this whole partnership. He misses him. I see it when they talk. I’d be a damn liar if I said I don’t miss it too. Could laze around all day talking about the good old days. Times have changed and they have changed quick. And do I loathe that Dutch was right those years ago- That higher crime  _ was  _ the right choice with all this civilization overwhelming the west-Yet the irony that he’s still got dragged all the way here. And now to run off to Chicago. Emphasis on the  RUNNING part.

And you know what. I’ll admit it. A little house by a lake with a little family doesn’t sound too bad, John Marston.

[sketch of a house by a lake and messily detailed]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thought itd be a good time to post arthurs thoughts


	14. Charcoal

The orange light of the ballroom was fuzzy on his vision. Women and men were dancing lazily around the room in circular motions. Dizzying. Circles. Circles. The music was calm and faded. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to recall the tune. It was boring.

He was here for a reason, but he doesn’t remember what. Blank conclusions itching at him.

John looked at his hands, covered in blue paint, red underneath his fingernails. When he looked up he blinked and his vision cleared just a bit to focus on the spinning men and women again. 

A woman with beautiful brown curls and pale fashion choice spun with the painter he liked. Marybeth met eye contact with him. Her smile always so sweet, then she looked to Arthur Morgan-When she looked back at John she reminded him of that woman in that picture on Arthur’s desk. She looked back to Arthur and John watched as he kissed her there. In the middle of the ballroom. 

John pushed past the dancers, walked to the two of them. They seemed to be stuck in such a nice conversation. Arthur’s attention on her and John filled with an emotion he didn’t think he should’ve been feeling. Sick jealousy. 

When he approached the two of them to interrupt this, he didn’t know what to say. 

With Arthur and Mary looking at him. Expecting him to say something. 

It felt like an eternity, their eyes. Jealousy, anxiety, excuses inside his head clawing to get out, the expectations. Why was he there? The feeling of the ballroom’s attention was on him. The music seemed withdrawn.

“May I have this dance, Mister Morgan?” He offered his hand. He couldn’t look back at Mary. Just straight into Arthur’s eyes, eyes he still couldn't figure the color of. As if they couldn't decide between green or blue. The man took his hand in his. It was covered in reds and blues just like his own. It’d make such a beautiful purple.

And with it, it seemed like the feelings of anxiety melted away. The woman abandoned. Arthur pulling him close as they waltzed. Joined the other dancers in spinning. 

John stepped on Arthur’s feet a lot. 

“Stop doin’ that.” He heard Arthur say to him. His voice so warm.

John couldn’t keep himself from smiling, an itch at his mouth. His cheeks feeling red and flustered. “Then stop making me the woman.”

“As if you’ve ever had a problem with that-Ow!”

He laughed as they stumbled and danced terribly. Clumsy, and what John thought: perfectly. 

The music of the ballroom only got louder as they danced. Spinning. Circles. His eyes on Arthur’s as he held onto him and watched the light warm his skin. How his attention was on him rather than the girl. That he was more important. That Arthur Morgan stopped their dancing just to kiss him. Kiss him and it was better. That Arthur seemed to melt with him in the middle of the ballroom. With the dancers never stopping. Their bodies fell so close they were the sand meeting the sea.

 

John opened his eyes and the orange glow of the ballroom was gone. 

 

The ceiling of his own room blank. 

 

The moonlight pushed through the curtains. The rain cast shadows across his bedroom as it pounded against the window panes.

 

He hasn’t seen Arthur Morgan in five weeks. 

 

* * *

 

“What is a fancy man like you doing in a place like this?” 

The voice caught him off guard. He turned around to see where the voice was coming from. The slums plaza was busy and he got bumped into twice when he suddenly stopped. Chinese and Latina voices scolding him. Damp too. Smelled like fish.

“Over here, Inamorato.” Was drawled and he finally found the man practically hiding behind a stack of bear pelts. A one Micah Bell. His smile smug and curled in such a cocky way John had such an irrational urge to knock it off his face.

John walked over to the market stall to get closer. The chatter of Saint Denis in the air and actually sort of annoying him. Or maybe it was just Micah who set him on edge. 

“Yes?” 

“Someone could rob you wearing clothes that rich around here.” 

John didn’t falter. “Who? You?” 

Micah scrunched his nose with his smile. “Maybe.” 

John leaned on the bear pelts too, shifting his weight on his feet. “Do you need something, Mister Bell?” 

“Just saw you and wondered how you’re holding up. After that incident and all.” 

He rubbed his shoulder when he was reminded of it. It didn’t hurt any more, but he was left with another scar. “I’m just fine. Thank you.”

“How’s Arthur Morgan?” He asked next.

“It’d be better asking him yourself.” 

Micah raised his brow. “Oh, have you not seen each other recently? A little lovers quarrel?” He had jumped to that conclusion too quickly to not know something.

“Don’t remember it ever being your business, Mister Bell.” 

The sound of the tram chime rang out suddenly and John glanced away.

“You’re right. Love stories always bored me.” 

“A real surprise coming from a man who has to pay for his.” 

That got Micah to scowl and John looked back over to get to see it. 

“You’re a real funny man, Big John.” Micah chuckled as he recovered from his annoyance. “Just wanted to check up on you...” He paused for a moment. “And maybe, just maybe ask a favor...”

“And that’d be?” 

After all that time wondering. The months of caution of when exactly Micah Bell would collect his debt. It was this:

“Accept my friendship.” 

“Hah, what?” John tilted his head and stepped once from the stall.

“You’re so- Withdrawn. I want to get to know John Marston. I want inside that head! To be a brother, John.” 

He narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m sorry, Mister Bell. But that is the most ridiculous request I have heard in a long while. I’m not sure if I should laugh or not. Or feel bad for you if this is how you make all your friends.” 

“Only the difficult ones.” Micah’s smile curled.

John exhaled, “And not to disappoint, but I’m not sure if you heard- But we ain’t planning on staying long anymore.” 

“Oh, I’m aware.” 

That startled him a little, narrowed his eyes. He caught his cool again. “Alright.” 

“ _Chi-ca-go.”_ Micah enunciated it through his teeth. “Dutch,” He said much too confidently, “He’s told me all about it… Seein’ with me helping him get there.... Would be a good reason to get to know you.” 

“And how exactly do you plan to help us get there _?”_  

The man pulled away from the pelts and shrugged. “Oh, I’d love to tell you more, but I don’t really got the time right now. How about… Doyle’s Tavern. Though, I doubt a man like you would ever be found in a place like that.” That got John to roll his eyes.

“I know the place. I’ll meet you there.” Because he definitely needed to know more, and if that meant humoring Micah Bell, then so be it.

 

So that’s how he ended up here. At Doyle’s Tavern. A lot more dressed down than he was the first time. Opting from his usual classic dress to just a shirt and vest. Didn’t go as far as to mess his hair up, or rub his face in dirt. Yet, despite his attempt at fitting in a lot better, he still looked better dressed than 95% of the patrons there. Them mostly covered in soot and grime, grease.

John didn’t shy away from the crowd. Just rested himself against the bar and ordered a whiskey. The owner was always so cheerfully welcoming. Which, he guessed was nice.

“No fancy tie tonight?” He heard Micah say as he walked to lean next to him. John took the shot. 

“Nope.” 

John played nice for the conversation. His focus half on Micah but mostly on his hands. Rolling a beer absently between his thumbs as he spoke with him. They were both good at playing nice, yet John kept his dialogue minimal. Micah steered the conversations a lot more than he did. Throughout it, John couldn’t figure out his angle. As they spoke and spoke it felt like he was genuinely trying to start a friendship. Talking about all sorts of stuff- Women- Saint Denis- Saint Denis women- The goings of his work- The goings of John’s work. How great Dutch was. How he agreed with his cause. 

“So, what’s your ideal woman, John?” Micah suddenly cut into the conversation. 

It surprised him, but he didn’t falter. “I am a married man, Mister Bell.”

“Oh and she is… A _fine_ woman. Mm. Yet, that doesn’t seem to matter to you, now does it.” 

John turned to him a little more, an eyebrow raised. “You aren’t making friendly conversation.” 

Micah chuckled. “Just trying to learn more about you! You’ve been so quiet this entire conversation… Or  are you always so quiet?” 

“Not particularly. But when I’m talkin’ to men who start accusing me of infidelity, I usually am.” 

And the complications of his marriage wasn’t even nuclear. Micah Bell didn’t deserve to know the details.

He took a drink of his beer. A better friend than Micah could ever be. “Why did you ask me out for this drink, Mister Bell?” 

“Like I just said. To get to _know you,_ John. I've only been clear! I wouldn’t accuse you of a thing. Just making conversation…” 

“You know. I thought it was to talk about how you’re helping us get to Chicago.” 

“Er- That too.”  He said cautious. 

“Then talk about how you’re getting us to Chicago.”

“Chicago?” A voice behind them said suddenly. The person fit himself right between them. “I’ve been to Chicago _once.”_ Arthur Morgan said. “Wasn’t a real pleasant experience I remember.” 

“Morgan!” Micah said cheerfully, his smile full of teeth.

“Micah,” He motioned over to the bartender. “Beer please. Thank you.” The bartender greeted him and supplied. “And another for the man next to me. Thanks.” 

John finished his beer and took the new one supplied to him. Tipped his head to the bartender with a soft gratitude. He hasn’t been this close to Arthur Morgan in a very long time, and he seemed like he was in a good mood. Despite catching John doing an awful thing. Having a drink with Micah Bell.

“Arthur Morgan.” John finally said. “What brought you here.” 

“Ah, drink here all the time. What’s got you two here?” He watched as the man took a long swig. His fingers gripping the bottle were green. John dragged his eyes over him. His clothes were his painting clothes. A little loose fitted, his collar undone and with just his brown vest. Looks like he was out field painting. That sat frustration on his shoulders knowing he wanted to be there with him. He’s only seen Hosea around since the incident. John knew that was on purpose. He took a drink of his own beer.

Swirled the bottle to watch the liquid spin inside.

Micah answered Arthur’s question. “Ah, just havin’ a drink with John here. Though, I must apologize. I’m sure you aren’t on the best of terms, since I last heard.” Slimy.

“Huh?” Arthur said. “Me and John?” 

Micah shrugged. 

“Uhuh, last you heard? I didn’t think we was something worth hearing about.” Arthur’s voice was lowered, insinuating something important. That it wasn’t the man’s business. Arthur turned to John next. “How’ve you been since I put a gun against your head?” 

John had to keep himself from smiling. He just swallowed it down and shrugged. “Dandy. You?” 

“Augh, you don’t wanna hear the half of it. Ever since Bronte’s kicked it I’ve been forced to paint flowers and old men again.” He took a drink. Then he straightened a bit. “Oh, I was interruptin’ somethin’ weren’t I?” 

Micah smiled and shook his head. “Not at all.. Actually, I’m glad you’re here. Was just trying to get to know John. We’ve become good partners..” 

“S’at so?” Arthur looked to John. 

“I wouldn’t quite phrase it in that kinda way, but sure. Partners.” John had to keep himself from rolling his eyes. God, please don’t leave, Arthur. 

“Can I join in?” Arthur asked. 

“In on what?” Micah asked back.

“On getting to know John.” He chuckled and took another drink. He was the only one drinking now. 

Micah didn’t immediately say no, but he didn’t immediately say yes either. His focus was clear though. Couldn’t imagine what kind of cogs were working in there. 

“...Be my guest, Morgan.” 

Arthur cleared his throat, then looked to John. “What’s your favorite color?” 

John blinked. “Green-Er, Blue. I’m not real sure.” 

“Ah, Green-Er-Blue is a fine color.” Arthur said. “Micah, you go ahead.” 

Why was Arthur like this. 

“Ooh, I’ll have to think.” Micah tapped his chin then leaned on bartop. “Favorite brand of Whiskey.” 

“Walkers' Kilmarnock, I’d say.” He said confidently.

Arthur paused. Looked to Micah. Micah looked to Arthur. 

“Okay.” 

“They don’t carry it much out here.” John defended.

“Must be a fancy one.” Arthur mumbled to Micah. “Okay, my turn.” He took a long drink of his beer to finish it then asked for another, leaned himself more on the bar top. “Do you like cats or do you like dogs.” 

John hummed in thought. “Dogs, I guess.” 

“’Cept the ones that bite yer face off.” Arthur chuckled. John didn’t.

“Except for those ones, yeah.” There was a second or two of silence,

Micah chuckled next to him. “It’s my turn. Marston. How old are you?”

“24.” He answered. 

Arthur seemed struck by that. “Hell, yer that young. I forgot about that.” 

John chuckled softly, “Okay?” 

“Birthday?” Micah asked. 

“No, no. My question now.” Arthur interrupted. “You already got yours.” He inhaled in thought then exhaled the question. “Where’s yer…family from.” 

John decided to finish off his beer and set it to the side. “My father came over from Scotland. Mother was a prostitute, but she died before I got to know ‘er.”

“Interesting.” Was all Arthur said to that. 

“First time you were with a woman?” Micah asked next. That got John to huff a laugh. 

“That’s a bit of a personal question, ain’t it.” 

Arthur chuckled, “He wants to know because he has yet to have had the chance.” 

Micah forced his laugh out. “Verrry funny, Morgan.” 

“Give me a name of a woman who you haven’t paid to have sex with you. Bet ya can’t.” Arthur jabbed, his tone still lighthearted. 

John couldn’t hold back a short snicker. “I made that same joke just earlier today at his expense.” 

“It’s an easy one.” Arthur replied back to him.

“You’re just a bunch of jokesters… Hilarious.” Micah did not seem as enthused. “I think Scars is avoiding the question because he ain’t sure if his Little Jack is his.” 

John scowled. “I was 20.” 

“How olds’ your boy, John?” Arthur asked.

“Four.” John answered.

Arthur counted on his fingers. Less out of stupidity and more out of dramatics. “Damn. You’ve got some luck, Marston.” 

“Guess I do.” And he requested another drink. He did. He had some damn luck.

No matter the topic it was actually pretty wild- He was enjoying a conversation that involved Micah Bell. No, he had that wrong. He was enjoying a conversation with Micah Bell with Arthur Morgan standing by his side. It’s been too long. Way too long.

“Now I’ve got a question for Micah Bell.” Arthur spoke up.

Micah didn’t reply but he seemed interested.

“Why the hell are you interrogating John here? And why are you joining him to Chicago?” 

John was a little startled by the shift in conversation. Except, he was a little glad he said it. Wanted to see how Micah would react to a man who held a different type of weight.

“Me? I’m trying to be nice and friendly…We work together, after all.” His smile was wry. Really doubling down on that friendly thing. John hopes he knew it made him sound ten times less trustworthy- He couldn’t be _that_ stupid. 

Arthur nodded. “Uhuh. Uhuh. I didn’t know calling the law on him every chance you got then pinnin’ that on me is very friendly of you.” He took a drink of his beer then asked for another one. John was stuck still. 

“That’s quite the accusation, Arthur Morgan…” Micah said carefully. 

Arthur took a swig and set it down. “It is. And you ain’t denyin’ it.” 

Micah smiled. “I could say the ocean is blue and you wouldn’t believe me. Why would I waste the breath defending myself.. And by the way,” He leaned over the counter more to look past Arthur. “John. I have _not_ been calling the law on you. To be clear to you.” 

“Alright.” John shrugged. “I believe you.” He didn’t.

“See?” He chuckled as he looked back at Arthur. “There’s a sensible man. I like John. I understand how the two of you had become quite attached to the hip.” 

Marston rose an eyebrow, “Thought Mister Morgan and I were enemies now.” 

“Yeah.” Arthur reaffirmed. Had this fake surprise about him. “I hate his guts.” He took another drink of his beer. “But if I was to call the law on him.. To call the law on him while he’s been robbin’ _me_ every chance he got, _which is what he’s been doin'_  foe or not _,_ I’d tell it to his goddamn face. Unlike you got the guts to.” 

Micah rolled his eyes. “Lay off it, Morgan.” 

Arthur chuckled. Clearly wanted to say something. Drank his beer. Then decided to say what he was trying not to say. “Yer a real despicable man, Micah. And I mean that.” 

“Oh, I know you do. Which is such a shame.. You know, we’d make such a great team. You, me, and John.” 

“I’m invited to this thing now?” Arthur exclaimed. “Hell, don’t I feel special.” 

John, who was technically still in the conversation, spoke up again. “I got a question for you, Arthur.” 

Arthur shifted to look at John. “Yeah?” 

“What’s your favorite color?” 

“Green.” He answered instantly. “Reminds me a trees- Why?” 

John smirked a bit, “Well, seein’ as we’re, as Micah put it, forming a team. Gotta get to know you too.” 

Micah and Arthur laughed and it mellowed the tension.

“If you were wondering, mines red.” Micah put in.

Arthur shook his head. “I wasn’t. But that’s good to know. Lemme guess, ‘cause it reminds _you_ a blood.” 

“No. Roses.” Micah bit back. “I am a _lover_ , Morgan.” 

John and Arthur started cracking up, and god damn it, so was Micah. 

“I pity the woman who is subjected to that flirtation.” Arthur chuckled out.

“You’d be surprised! Women, they love a powerful man…” 

John tried to hold back a snicker, he really did. 

“You’re a powerful man? Shit, then what does that make me?” Arthur quipped back.

“The mayor, I reckon.” John answered with a grin.

And the rest of the night went fine. Uncharacteristically fine.

Arthur Morgan was a lot more drunk than John ever got. Tipsy versus gently sloshed. 

Micah left before they did, and as terribly friendly he played, he was glad he no longer had to be on guard on what he said. Micah’s intentions were still unknown. No matter, they wished him well and he slid from the bartop to the exit in that obnoxious dramatic fashion. An eel slipping away from the rocks.

John and Arthur watched him until he was gone. 

 

“How’ve you been?” John asked and this time it was in a more earnest way. Without a third party keeping them from honesty. 

Arthur tapped at the bar top and thought for a bit. “‘M alright. You makin’ it okay?” 

John tightened his shoulders then relaxed them. His tone a bit more melancholic. “Yeah. As much as I can. And so far I ain’t dead.”

“I can see that.”

John paused, tilted his beer towards Morgan. “But it seems like you’ve been.” 

That got a shrug. “Didn’t you hear Micah? Were enemies now. Why would I want to see you?” 

John chuckled softly and took his last drink of his beer and set it aside. “Remember when this was all simple and you hated me while I sat there stubborn lookin’ at the sky as you painted it?”

“Mm.” Arthur grunted. “Was never simple. You were just runnin’.” 

That earned a frown. “Would you quit with that?”

“It’s the truth, John. Speakin’ of, how you’ve been gettin’ on? With uh, everything.”

John had to think extra hard to get his thoughts right. “Er, Mrs. Jackson has told me she’d shelter Jack and Abigail when that time comes. While you’ve been gone, Dutch has practically stuck his nose in everybody. Focusing on the ground, tellin’ the poorer art community to rise up. Movin' his weight around. Ever since that night, he's kept me closer. Changed his tune in a way I'm not sure of. Was hopin' it'd be like how it used to be, now that we were apparently both trying to hate you. He sees right through it, I know he does.”

"'Course he does. He's not an idiot." Arthur finished his last beer too.

"You ain't scared he'll somehow use this friendship against us? Since he knows? I know he's been itchin' to get you back."

"Our friendship, huh." Arthur's smile was cute. John rolled his eyes. Then he answered the question. "We been hurtin' worse since I did that, ya know, John. Through the vines or not, with the way he's been pushin' on yer contacts, galleries- They ain't havin' us."

“Yeah?”

"Yeah."

A short silence. Guilt.

He decided to catch him up further, "Otherwise.. Otherwise Dutch's enemies have calmed."

Arthur looked to the door. “And fer you too, what’s this drinkin’ with Micah Bell.” 

John exhaled. “I think he wants to go to Chicago. And it seems like he wants to go bad. That’s my only guess.” 

“Guess he’ll do anything to get what he wants. And so will you, huh.” Arthur said with finality.

That sunk them into a small silence, even inebriated.

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna head out, I think. It was good to see you, Morgan.” 

“Alright.” John suddenly felt that paw of his grab his shoulder. Squeezed with the intensity of a drunk man. “John.”

“Yeah?”

“John.” He said again. 

He huffed a short laugh, “Yes, Mister Morgan.”

“I ain’t. I ain’t the man you want me to be.” He said suddenly. John didn’t give him any sort of reaction. “This savior.” He didn’t even see him as that. It came off drunkenly overconfident.

“Okay.”

“I ain’t gonna save you- Hosea ain’t gonna save you. The city- Dutch-All a this. It’s gonna swallow you up. If you don’t act.” 

John scrunched his nose, “Uhuh.” 

“So, promise me. Promise me- When that time comes, you don’t hesitate. You get outta there.” 

He knew this. “I will, Morgan.” 

“Promise.” 

John chuckled.

“ _Promise.”_ His tone darkened.

“I promise.”

“Good. Good.”

“Have a good night.” Was all he could manage to that. Softer than he’d normally say.

Arthur’s hand slipped away. John already missed it. 

“Have a good night, John.” And even as it was repeated it had a slurred drawl. 

John stepped away from the bar and gave the bartender a small wave.

He should get home. He looked back and saw Arthur order one more drink. Wouldn’t know the next time he’ll get to see the painter again.

 

* * *

 

There was smoke up ahead. A curious amount.

John rode his horse for the first time in ages, and it sparked some nostalgia. He was in no rush. The population of Saint Denis had a tendency to run out in front of people so it was always good to take it slow. So he rode along and hummed to ‘Daisy Bell.’ Thought about the lyrics he didn’t quite know.

Things in Saint Denis happened all the time, like any other city. Any other town. Smoke billowing from the lower district could be easily assumed as a poor factory explosion. An idiot at the wheel of something too complicated. 

Thought about the dock incident since it was coming from that way. Thought about how it was still oddly ironic that they’d end up in complex in such an area. After all their work to get where they were. Started from nothing. They wasted it all just for some pissing contest and too many stolen valuables. John didn’t believe Cornwall’s men to be out here. There wasn’t a big enough reason to. 

He trotted along until he realized it seemed that smoke to be oddly close to their home. He trotted a little faster. Then a little faster than that. Then he was in a full gallop.

Pulled on the reigns as he found himself at the conclusion he had come to.

 

Fire. 

 

Oh, Jesus. _Fire._

 

The apartment was ablaze and firemen were already at the scene attempting to put it out. Yelling, chaos, and public curiosity deafened in his ears as panic drowned him. Sank his heart. Sobered his thoughts clearer than day.

“Hey!” He rushed to the nearest fireman, “What happened!? What’s going on?” 

He asked that but he didn’t wait for an answer, running to the complex. The fireman yelled after him. He didn’t see his friends. He didn’t see Abigail. He didn’t see Jack. Dutch. 

Oh Christ. 

He kicked the door open and had to immediately fall back and shield his face as smoke billowed out. Heat hitting him like a wave. 

“Abigail!” He was about to rush in, to be a strong brave man, but a firefighter grabbed his arm and yanked him back. 

“Get off’a me!” He immediately turned and punched the firefighters lights out. He felt immediate regret.

“John!” Abigail yelled from the sidelines. Jack in her arms. “You dumb idiot!” She yelled again and he stepped back from the poor fireman who only wanted to help.

Oops.

He quickly ran away from the now unconscious fireman, as well as the one yelling profanities at him, to Abigail instead. Relief. Utter damn relief. Concern still edged on him. Confusion. 

She and Jack were covered in soot, dirtied to all hell. 

“Are you okay? What happened.”

“We don’t know. Dutch n’ most of the others were on some dumb errand- I don’t know, John. It just went aflame.” 

“Where are the others?”

An answer tumbled from her mouth but John couldn’t listen. Arthur’s words clouding him. 

Was this his opportunity?

“Where?” He asked again, trying to snap his attention back to her.

“Talking with the police-“ She went to finish but John grabbed her shoulder. Jack was curled into her. Shaken up beyond belief he bet.

“Come with me. We’ve gotta go.” 

Her brow creased in that familiar way. “What? There’s-“

“Just trust me. For once, Abigail.” 

She looked around. Looked unsure.

“Please.”

She trusted him.

 

There were no answers right now, but he knew who to go to. To make sure that she and Jack would be safe while he found them. The answers. Dutch. The rest of his friends. The bastard who did this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why did this take so long, mr author, sir? im glad you asked, reader, because i actually wrote the next chapter before i wrote this one. so expect that to be posted tomorrow! :) every day i ask god why am i like this and he never answers. thanks for your patience, yall


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